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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25964068">All Along The Watchtower</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GGMoonyCrisco/pseuds/GGMoonyCrisco'>GGMoonyCrisco</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adventure, Blood and Injury, Brotherhood of Steel (Fallout), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Character Study, Danse Needs A Hug, Danse Redemption, Dissociation, Drugs, Enemies to Friends, Existential Crisis, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Memory Loss, Mystery, Nick Valentine is a bro, Nick Valentine is too good, Partnership, Pining, Post-Blind Betrayal, Recovery, References to Depression, References to Suicide, Robot Dysphoria, Synthfuckers United</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:19:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>116,487</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25964068</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GGMoonyCrisco/pseuds/GGMoonyCrisco</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nora's been missing for two weeks, and Nick Valentine suspects foul play. There's no love lost between him and the ex-Paladin Danse, but if it means tracking her down, even they can suck it up and put their heads together. Right? Right.</p><p>Two runaway synths set out on the world's most awkward road trip to solve a sinister mystery. Along the way, they'll learn more about each other, themselves, and what other dark secrets the Institute left behind. </p><p>Chiefly Nick &amp; Danse developing friendship. Background Danse/Nora, shades of Nick/Nora. Sad Danse Redemption, and Nick being the nicest goddamn guy in the Commonwealth.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Female Sole Survivor &amp; Nick Valentine, Paladin Danse &amp; Nick Valentine, Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>179</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>165</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Genuary 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. This Cold War With You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"You know," I said to myself the other day, "It's too bad that my two favorite companions in Fallout 4 don't get along at all. They'd have so much to talk about and relate over!" </p><p>Enter the magic of fan fiction.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sky rumbled, green flashes in the distance foretelling the radstorm a few seconds before the click-click-clicking in his chest. His internal Geiger counter hummed to life as the first heavy drops spattered against his fedora. Within a half a minute, the rain poured in sheets so thick he couldn’t see twenty yards away. </p><p> </p><p>Good timing. Even if the rads wouldn’t harm him, Nick preferred not to trudge around in a veritable nuclear typhoon. </p><p> </p><p>Standing in the sheltered doorway of the bunker, the synth detective took one more slow drag of his cigarette. A final puff of menthol and nicotine stimulated his taste receptors and stirred the memories of another man, in another time, who smoked when he needed to calm down. Nostalgia was about the only effect cigarettes had on this mechanical body. Still, he could use all the calm he could get for a conversation he’d been dreading more every mile he put between him and Diamond City.</p><p> </p><p>A green flash split the sky, and thunder followed near-instantly. Best stop stalling lest he become a walking lightning rod. Nick snuffed the cigarette in the palm of his metal hand, then tucked the butt into his pocket and headed into Listening Post Bravo.</p><p> </p><p>Apart from the dimly flashing light on the elevator, the place looked completely abandoned. A fine layer of dust and filth clung to every surface, and a dry skeleton in ratty military fatigues slumped beside the security desk. The atmosphere was creepy enough that few would dare stick around, much less descend the elevator. </p><p> </p><p>Not a bad place for an exiled soldier to hide out. </p><p> </p><p>Nick Valentine had plenty of opinions about the Brotherhood of Steel, and most were merely half as uncharitable as its members had ever been to him. They were a trumped-up bunch of arrogant bullies, using style and might as excuses to steal and hoard and push people around. They rolled into the Commonwealth to pick a fight with the Institute, threw their weight around, then expected folks to thank them for it. Credit where credit was due, they had the capability to do good, and did when it suited them-- and ultimately served them. </p><p> </p><p>All the same, he understood why Nora sought them out. Her Minutemen had good hearts and good intentions, but they were barely getting back on their feet. They didn’t have the resources to get her into the Institute. Meanwhile, a prewar woman who’d been married to a soldier would find the Brotherhood’s stability and security a comfort. Their self-righteous war targeted the people who’d ruined her family, and they had the manpower and the firepower to put up a good fight. Hell, as much as Nick loathed the Institute, even he felt a little glee at the idea of watching them take a black eye from the Brotherhood. </p><p> </p><p>So despite his misgivings, he’d stayed quiet when Nora decided to join up. She was a grown woman and could make her own decisions about where she spent her time and effort. She never bought into their bigoted bullshit about ghouls and synths, and he figured the organization could use more fair-minded people around. </p><p> </p><p>Most importantly, she was his friend. He felt the need to support her in her decisions, trust her judgment, and give her the room to do anything that might help rescue her son.</p><p> </p><p>It was a hell of a lot harder to keep his mouth shut around Nora’s Brotherhood mentor. Mostly because Paladin Danse never saw fit to do the same. The big lug was constantly spewing the bile that comes from getting brainwashed by “the cause.” He’d been more than happy to spew it at Nick the few times they’d met in passing, despite Nora’s scolding him about it. Over-serious, hard headed, aggressive, and judgmental… The man was every obnoxious facet of the Brotherhood of Steel made flesh, and Nick was pleased enough not to interact with him. The feeling was obviously mutual. </p><p> </p><p>Still, Nick fancied himself a guy who could see the good in anyone. There was good in Danse, if you squinted. He was an honorable man. Brave and selfless, loyal and skilled. Obviously there had to be more than that to draw a sweetheart like Nora so close to him, but she and God only knew what. Danse had all the hallmarks of a decent person who’d been ground down and tangled up in the Brotherhood machine for so long, it was hard to tell there was a man left. </p><p> </p><p>Then it turned out, according to the Brotherhood, there wasn’t. And nobody, not even a stubborn goon like Danse, deserved the ensuing hell he must have gone through. </p><p> </p><p>Nick could certainly empathize. Waking up one morning in a body that isn’t yours. Realizing that somebody put you there, never knowing who or when or how. Being a tool, an asset, then being tossed aside when you’re no longer convenient. </p><p> </p><p>It was about two months ago, the day Nora stormed into Nick’s office after-hours. She was ashen-faced, looking like she’d been frozen and thawed out all over again. He’d given her the time she needed to collect herself, then carefully asked how her latest expedition with the Brotherhood had gone. </p><p> </p><p>Her gray eyes narrowed. Her voice cracked, and her short-cropped dark hair curtained her face. “I’m done, Nick. I’m done with them.” </p><p> </p><p>She told him a story, then, about infiltration. Stealing information from the Institute in exchange for the tech to get her inside. How the pieces all connected and destroyed a man’s life, and how Elder Maxson gave her an order she refused to follow. There were bits and pieces missing, details she was leaving out, things that were clearly gnawing at the scraps of her heart where the guilt hadn’t yet eaten her. But Nick didn’t question, didn’t demand answers. He listened, and let her cry on his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>That was how he knew where to find Danse. That was how he knew to follow the trail here. And that was how he knew, no matter how much he and the ex-Paladin disliked one another, that he deserved to be informed. Nora would want him to be informed. </p><p> </p><p>As the elevator rumbled to a stop at the bottom floor, Nick held onto the last vestiges of  hope that she might be here when the doors slid open. He stepped out into the bunker with some trepidation, looking around.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” he called out. “Anybody home?” </p><p> </p><p>The underground section of the bunker was far cleaner than the security room upstairs. Among the rubble and wrecked equipment, somebody had made quite the cozy little hideout. Workbenches along the wall were littered with tools and parts. The air smelled of grease and flame and burnt wood, remnants of a firepit in the middle of the room. The sultry voice of Betty Hutton carried from a distant radio, and work lights had been strung up throughout, trailing into what looked to be a cavern behind a massive hole in the concrete wall. </p><p> </p><p>Out of this hole appeared a dark-haired man, armed with a laser rifle and a scowl.</p><p> </p><p>Nick greeted him warily. “Danse.” </p><p> </p><p>So did he. “Valentine.” </p><p> </p><p>Huh, so there really was a regular man under all that bulky power armor. The ex-Paladin  was still a big guy, tall and brawny, dressed in grease-stained casual clothes and heavy boots. The dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept in a week. He lowered the rifle to his side and stepped closer with the demeanor of a dog unsure if he’s going to be fed, or kicked. </p><p> </p><p>The pair of them were overtaken by the oddly specific silence of two men with a hell of a lot to say to one another, little of it amicable, with only a grudging sense of decorum holding them back.  </p><p> </p><p>“Nice digs,” said Nick, when the awkwardness became unbearable. He gestured a thumb towards the collapsed concrete wall. “I particularly like the renovations.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you. The hole was there when I arrived,” said Danse, as though Nick genuinely believed otherwise.</p><p> </p><p>Well, that would have to pass for small talk. “Handy. Anyway, sorry to bother you, but Is Nora here by any chance?” </p><p> </p><p>“Negative. Paladin Carter last left two weeks ago.” </p><p> </p><p>Two weeks. He slotted that information into the timeline. “Did she tell you where she was headed?”</p><p> </p><p>Danse frowned a little deeper. “She had business with the Minutemen. Why?” </p><p> </p><p>Two weeks ago, Listening Post Bravo. A week and a half ago, expected at the Castle, but never arrived. Anything could go wrong even on a straightforward trek across the Commonwealth, but two weeks...</p><p> </p><p>Danse was glaring daggers at him awaiting an answer. Nick resisted the urge to recover the cigarette in his pocket. “Well, I got a visitor at my office the other day. Preston Garvey of the Commonwealth Minutemen. According to Garvey, our mutual friend was meant to attend a briefing at the Castle ten days ago. She never showed.”</p><p> </p><p>It could have been the lighting, but he swore there was a flicker of emotion in Danse’s face. His eyes widened briefly, then narrowed as sullen as ever. “Are you saying that something’s happened to her?” </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t say that for sure. All I know is it’s been two weeks since anybody’s seen her, and it sounds like you’re the last one who did.” </p><p> </p><p>The silence came back, bigger and uglier than ever. </p><p> </p><p>Nick considered his next question very carefully before he asked it. “I don’t suppose you’d know if she headed off on some kind of Brotherhood excursion.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse closed his eyes briefly, then shook his head. “No. She didn’t.” </p><p> </p><p>“You sure?” </p><p> </p><p>“Despite my exile, I’ve maintained contact with my former scribe,” said Danse. “She visits weekly to bring me supplies, and keeps me abreast of operations. She was here five days ago, and mentioned that Paladin Carter had not reported back to the Prydwen in some time.” </p><p> </p><p>Not a surprise. Nick was fairly certain she wasn’t going back to the Prydwen <em> any </em>time, but there was no need to antagonize with that remark. “I see.” </p><p> </p><p>“So that means she’s missing.” If possible, Danse’s expression looked even more serious than before.“Missing in action between ten and fourteen days’ time.” </p><p> </p><p>“Seems to be the gist of it.” Nick sank his hand into his pocket to fidget with the cigarette butt. “There’s always the chance she got delayed somewhere. But we’re past the point I’m comfortable calling it a ‘delay.’” </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s chest rose and fell. His shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes. Slowly, his muscles tensed, his back straightened, and he turned to Nick. “I’m going to look for her.”</p><p> </p><p>He fully and completely expected that answer. “By yourself?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m entirely capable of accomplishing a solo operation.” </p><p> </p><p>“No argument here.” Nick raised his hands, conciliatory. “But I thought you were meant to be laying low.” </p><p> </p><p>“She could be injured, captured, or worse. I’m not going to wait around for somebody else to track her down when her life could be hanging in the balance.” With that, Danse headed over to a shelf, pulling down a bag of supplies to sort through. “Thank you for the information. For coming all this way”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome,” said Nick. “You think you’ll be all right out there by yourself?” </p><p> </p><p>“I have no alternatives,” said Danse.</p><p> </p><p>“Really?” Nick scoffed. “Didn't occur to you that we could go together?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse glanced up with a slightly pained look on his face. Seemed like it had definitely occurred to him, but he’d just thought better of it. “I don’t know if that would be a good idea.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because, we… I wouldn't say we’re suited for a partnership, given…” Danse drifted off. </p><p> </p><p>Boy, was Nick looking forward to the end of that sentence. He threw the soldier a look that said he’d wait as long as it took to hear it. </p><p> </p><p>To his surprise, Danse handled the wording pretty well. “Mister Valentine, I’m well aware of your friendship with Paladin Carter, and I respect her high regard for you. But that doesn’t need to extend to me.” </p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t,” Nick replied. “And the feeling’s mutual, I’m sure.” Though hey, apparently he qualified as a “mister” now. Flattering. </p><p> </p><p>Danse made a sour face. “Then I shouldn’t need to clarify it for you.” </p><p> </p><p>“You may not be my favorite person in the Commonwealth, but you and I both know we’re too stubborn to sit by,” said Nick. “So the way I see it, we could split up, cover the same ground, and end up picked off by the horror of your choice. Or we could set the animosity aside and put our heads together. I’d rather play nice and track down Nora than get killed trying to go it alone.” </p><p> </p><p>It was hard to identify what the poe-faced ex-Paladin was thinking at the best of times, much less when there was clearly something going on behind those brown eyes. Nick couldn’t tell if it was resentment or loathing. If he used his imagination, it looked a little like shame.</p><p> </p><p>After a long moment, Danse nodded. “It would be... prudent to cooperate, under the circumstances.”</p><p> </p><p>Thank God. If the bonehead had insisted on going alone, Nick didn’t think he had it in him to argue. “Having a soldier at my back wouldn’t be the worst idea I’ve ever had.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, it wouldn’t.” Like talking to a damn Protectron, this one. Though Danse did at least follow it up in kind. “Nor would it be foolish to accept the input of a detective in finding a missing person.”</p><p> </p><p>“You see?” said Nick. “All the makings of a decent team.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse nodded again and finished packing the bag on the workbench. “Allow me half an hour to pack my things and prepare my armor, and we can depart immediately.” He stepped back towards the hole in the concrete wall and vanished into it without another word. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>In a way, Danse had always been more comfortable with machines. The inherent cruel joke was not lost on him. </p><p> </p><p>Machines were more precise than people, more predictable. The pieces always fit together as expected, and there were rarely any unexpected finds within. Things that broke could be repaired, or replaced, and then everything would work like it was meant to. If it didn’t, the whole thing could be scrapped, components put to better use somewhere else. </p><p> </p><p>It had been exactly fifty-two days since he was exiled from the Brotherhood, stripped of rank and forced into hiding. Fifty-two days since his purpose had been removed like a malfunctioning part, leaving him empty and useless. It was no replacement, but all Danse could do to deal with it was turn to machines. </p><p> </p><p>His existence became a sequence of tasks, projects to occupy his time and make the old listening post more livable. He wired up the lights, built the workbenches, set up the fire pit. He cleaned up the mess, sorted through the rubble for usable items and scrap. He tinkered with tools and guns and listened to the radio. Once, he tried firing up the computers to see what still worked. None of it did, so he’d begun taking the old consoles apart too. </p><p> </p><p>One day, he ventured out of the bunker to investigate the area around the helipad and discovered an old storage cellar. Inside, he’d been stunned to find a real treat: a rusty, seized, but intact frame of X-01 power armor. That provided him his newest and most fulfilling project so far. He’d dragged the whole thing down into the bunker and set to work disassembling it, cleaning each part and rewiring the circuits and hydraulics. Once the suit was functional again, he had time to start modding it, replacing pieces to customize it and make it better than ever. After a month of work, he dared say it was better than his T-60 suit had ever been. </p><p> </p><p>It got to the point where the synth was almost able to forget his circumstances, where he could almost pretend there was nothing else in the world but this bunker. Tasks for him to accomplish. Parts for him to repair or replace. A machine among other machines, working the way he was supposed to in a soothing, thoughtless trance. </p><p> </p><p>But the trance was broken every time that elevator door opened. Every time somebody came to see him at the bunker, it cut through the illusion and tethered him back to reality. His name was Danse. He’d been a Paladin with the Brotherhood of Steel. He had human beings, Haylen and Nora, who cared about him and brought him food and water and alcohol and things to read. He had human flesh, human bones, a human mind. And above it all, he had human feelings. Confusion. Sorrow. Bitterness. Loneliness. </p><p> </p><p>Part of him resented them for the reminder. Thought it might be better if they left him down here and let him be a machine. Then another part of him realized, with horror, that he was thinking about it again. </p><p> </p><p>Danse was in the middle of that realization once more as he moved through the rear room, gathering supplies in a backpack. That it had been four days since he’d even attempted to sleep, and three since he’d bothered to eat or drink anything. That it took a machine intruding on him to stop his latest lapse of nearly turning into one. In these pointless, purposeless days and weeks in exile, it was easy to glut himself in distraction, to dissociate his way out of the pain. </p><p> </p><p>But for all it might be easier to become a machine, he viciously denied himself the option. Haylen and Nora risked their necks for him, believed in him, and he couldn’t stand the thought of letting them down. Eating, sleeping, feeling-- maybe such needs were programmed into him, but they were <em> human </em>. The only damn humanity he had left. He would keep it. no matter how hard it was. No matter how much it hurt. </p><p> </p><p>Chasing off the nagging fact he didn’t need to, Danse defiantly packed bottles of water and boxes of food. He grabbed a bottle of Nuka-Cola and twisted off the cap, taking long gulps to drain it in less than a minute. The sugar tingled his tongue and the liquid pooled in his stomach. The hunger pangs he was programmed to feel were obvious now that he’d acknowledged their presence, as was the slow wave of exhaustion. Sleep sounded wonderful, but he’d have to push on without. Like hell was he going to leave Nora lost longer than he had to. </p><p> </p><p>He packed the other necessities; his beloved laser rifle, a combat knife, fusion cells, a utility tool. As he finished changing into a padded jumpsuit to wear beneath the power armor, a flicker of movement caught his eye from the cavern. </p><p> </p><p>Valentine stood there, looking at the X-01 suit hanging in the armor frame. The old synth’s mechanical eyes moved back and forth over it, and his plastic face shifted. Metal parts moved what would have been his brow in an approximation of human expression. Surprise. Admiration. Some Institute scientist had carefully assembled the facial structure, tested it, programmed in the motions. Just like they’d done to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Quite the suit you’ve got there.” The glowing yellow eyes turned to Danse. “You fix that up yourself?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse realized he was staring at the gears beneath the torn “skin” on Valentine’s jaw. He felt a sudden swell of embarrassment, then hurriedly tried to recall the question. “I- yes. I did. All Brotherhood soldiers are expected to have a functional knowledge of simple power armor maintenance” </p><p> </p><p>“I’d call that better than simple maintenance. Looks good as new.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.” Danse turned away to finish buckling the straps on his uniform. Somehow, every civil word out of Valentine’s mouth made the discomfort worse. It felt like a lead-in to the inevitable. A charade, putting off what Valentine <em> really </em>wanted to say to him. </p><p> </p><p>But the synth detective remained frustratingly civil. “Sorry to intrude back here, but I wanted to mention a few small perks to traveling with me.” He motioned vaguely at his mechanical body, metal and gears and wires wrapped in plastic skin. “I don’t sleep or eat or anything like that. So you bring whatever you need for you, and take care of that stuff when you need to.” </p><p> </p><p>The eerily prescient comment made him frown. “Why are you mentioning that?” </p><p> </p><p>“Because you should know,” said Valentine. “Not just because you look like absolute hell, honest.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine.” The words left his mouth so quickly that the scowl didn’t come for a few seconds after. “You don’t need to concern yourself with my condition.” </p><p> </p><p>“If those circles under your eyes were any darker, I’d suspect you were experimenting with grease makeup.” Valentine’s bare metal hand pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. “Look, that storm’s a big one, and it’s not going to let up soon. I, for one, don’t feel like getting my gears all rusty. Why don’t you catch some Zs before we head out?”</p><p> </p><p>It was one thing to be tired and hungry, to acknowledge it as a crutch to keep him tied to his fake humanity. It was another to have it pointed out to him by another machine. Danse felt his anger rising for reasons he couldn’t coherently understand. How dare that synth come walking in here like nothing had happened? Did Valentine know that gen-3s didn’t actually need to maintain themselves? Did he even know what it felt like to be tired, or hungry, or to find out one day that you never truly had been? Did he think he was being merciful, taking some approximation of pity on some approximation of a man?</p><p> </p><p>It was irrational. It was foolish and he knew it, but between that and the shame and the fact he’d just remembered he could even have feelings again and the fact they were <em> fake-- </em></p><p> </p><p>He suddenly thought of Nora. Patient, gentle Nora, her hand cupping his cheek, her fingertips brushing his beard, and that quirky smile of hers. “<em> Leave this to me. You look exhausted, Danse. At least try to get some sleep?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Very well,” said Danse. He glanced briefly at his bed, then back at Valentine. “You will wake me as soon as the storm lets up. I only need a few hours.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure.” </p><p> </p><p>“And if you don’t mind-- I would prefer you wait in the other room.” His skin crawled at the idea of the synth soullessly watching him struggle with his insomnia.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, of course. I’ll sit tight.” Valentine flicked a flame to life in one of his fingers, stopping just before lighting the cigarette. “You mind if I smoke down here?” </p><p> </p><p>“No.” Danse gestured to the rest of the bunker. “Make yourself at home, I suppose.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks.” Valentine lit the cigarette, then turned to leave. He paused briefly, then said something over his shoulder with a nod. “Danse.” </p><p> </p><p>He nodded back. “Valentine.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Travellin' Blues</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A synth and his Sentrybot, inclement weather, community service, and the synth elephant in the room.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It wasn’t like Nick expected traveling with the least easygoing man in the Commonwealth to be a picnic, but he realized his crucial mistake about two hours in: he’d forgotten to bring a radio. </p><p> </p><p>Traveling with Nora was always a delight. Whenever they weren’t in imminent danger, they’d chat and trade stories. They’d reminisce about how nice certain places were before the war, and how nice they’d look now if not for the scorch marks and rubble and current infestation of horrors. And whenever they didn’t feel like talking, Nora tuned her Pip-Boy to good ol’ Diamond City Radio. They’d sing along (Nick would hum-- he considered himself tone-deaf) or cringe at Travis’ latest on-air conniption, or just let the music score their adventures across the wastes. </p><p> </p><p>Danse, meanwhile, looked the part of a dour golem in his power armor. His helmet glared wordlessly at the world as he stomped all over it, sharply alert for signs of danger. The man clearly wasn’t great with words that weren’t tactical orders, so he avoided them at all costs. The only music available on him was the rhythmic clanking of every step he took. </p><p> </p><p>That left them to walk in excruciating silence--  the sort that comes right before an unbearably awkward conversation. And since Danse seemed as determined as Nick was to avoid the synth elephant in the room, it was a nice, prolonged, <em> extended </em>agony. </p><p> </p><p>At least the pair of them must have made an amusing sight. The slender, rickety synth in his coat and hat, accompanied by a massive, faceless armored brute. He remembered a child he’d once met on the road, a young girl with an imposing Sentrybot bodyguard. Nick was way the hell off from a little girl, but Danse and a Sentrybot, on the other hand… </p><p> </p><p>They headed south from Listening Post Bravo, following the likely route Nora would have taken to the Castle. There was always the chance that she’d gone in another direction, but given the difficulty of traversing downtown, there were decent odds she’d headed straight to her destination.</p><p> </p><p>Less decent were the odds they’d find any clues out here.The rain had washed away anything small, and it was unlikely they’d find anything that obviously belonged to Nora otherwise. It had been nearly two weeks. </p><p> </p><p>The storm hadn’t cleared out so much as it slowed down, the deluge turning into a misty sprinkle. The irradiated green clouds had blown back into the Glowing Sea, leaving murky gray skies behind. Open fields had transformed into a veritable swamp, soggy grass and thick pools of mud turning the ordinary landscape into a miserable slog. </p><p> </p><p>More than once, Danse had to step carefully to keep from sinking into the muck. Only once, Nick nearly lost his shoe in the mud and heard something snap when he pulled his foot out (nothing crucial. Probably just another tension spring.) It made for slow traveling, and the frustration made the silence even worse. </p><p> </p><p>To add insult to injury, for once the Commonwealth had the audacity to be uneventful. It got to the point Nick was close to praying for a gang of raiders or a nice pack of yao guai. </p><p> </p><p>He’d never been so thrilled to come across a swarm of bloatflies sucking up water from a filthy puddle. Alas, the break from the tedium was short-lived, as a few clean laser shots splattered them into chunks in seconds. </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s armor hummed as he rose from his firing position, clicking the safety on his laser. “Disgusting,” he muttered, his voice augmented by the helmet.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll say.” Oh, thank God. Something to talk about. “Good shooting.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>Shit. Already losing him. “They, uh… got bloatflies down in the Capital Wasteland?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. In droves. Though the insect population here is substantially worse. Other, more dangerous species are far more common.”</p><p> </p><p>“No kidding?” </p><p> </p><p>“No kidding,” Danse confirmed, and kept walking. </p><p> </p><p>Well, it was nice while it lasted. </p><p> </p><p>There were no further conversations as they traveled, at least none of a personal nature. As they passed by the National Guard Training Yard, a couple of feral ghouls stumbled out from a torn chain link fence. Danse took aim, and Nick noticed a second group of them staggering in from behind. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey. They brought friends.” </p><p> </p><p>“Stand your ground. Move slowly. Watch our sides in case they flank. Can you take them?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I’ve got it.” Nick loaded his pistol, and marveled at getting four entire sentences in a row from his companion. He plugged two of the ghouls before Danse finished the first group, then the soldier turned around and brought a swift end to the others with a clean sweep of his laser. </p><p> </p><p>That Sentrybot comparison was seeming more and more apt. It was like there was a switch wired into him. Turn it on, and Danse was an efficient killing machine. Turn it off… well. For a while now, Nick had been wondering if he even <em> could </em>turn it off. Groups like the Brotherhood that wanted their soldiers perfect and primed for battle would do whatever it took to keep their switches on-- like break them entirely. </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s amplified voice surprised him, nudging him out of his musings. “Good shooting.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Thanks.” Nick glanced at him, wondering that was meant to be sarcastic. But the ex-Paladin was already holstering his laser and already up ahead, his armor rhythmically clanking with every step. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Just after noon, the rain started to pick up again. As the storm broke overhead, they came over a hill to see a cluster of structures down below. The settlement of County Crossing was bustling with activity, small human shapes moving frantically between the wooden shacks. </p><p> </p><p>"Place has come along since the last time I was out this way,” said Nick. “If nothing else, maybe she passed through.” </p><p> </p><p>“Affirmative,” said Nick’s own personal Sentrybot.  </p><p> </p><p>The settlement’s position roadside in an open field gave it plenty of room, enough for half a dozen small wooden shacks and an expansive plot for crops. It did not provide the best drainage. The settlers were hard at work trying to mitigate damage from rainwater collecting in the field, turning the ground between the shacks into a shallow pond. Three settlers frantically dug trenches around the farm plot, and two took turns operating a pump to drain water on the other side of the road. On the far side of the settlement, a man in a duster and cowboy hat worked with a woman to drag a miserable-looking Brahmin out of hoof-deep mud. </p><p> </p><p>“A Minuteman,” muttered Nick as they passed by the shacks. “Just who we need to talk to. This doesn’t look like a great time, though.” </p><p> </p><p>“Valentine,” said Danse sternly. </p><p> </p><p>“Right now they’ve got other things to worry about, Danse.” </p><p> </p><p>“No.” He gestured off to the side. “People are staring at us.” </p><p> </p><p>Guess they really did make a funny sight. A small crowd of the settlers had stopped working in favor of gawking at the newcomers.  Really, though, Nick knew they were gawking at <em> him. </em> Their expressions were colored with familiar unease, a spectrum of anxiety and fear. </p><p> </p><p>One woman in a makeshift raincoat was turning a brilliant shade of red. “What the hell are you doing here, <em> synth? </em>”</p><p> </p><p>The clanking stopped short as he heard Danse utterly freeze behind him.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, synth! I’m talking to you!” The woman stepped forward. “What do you want?” </p><p> </p><p>“Beg your pardon, ma’am, but it looks like you folks have got your hands full,” Nick said in his friendliest tone of voice. “We’d be happy to lend you a hand.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, right! You’re looking for somebody new to kidnap!” </p><p> </p><p>“Marie, would you shut up?” another woman hissed at her. “You’re gonna piss it off!” </p><p> </p><p>“We’ve got enough problems without you picking fights,” a man cut in. </p><p> </p><p>“What’s under the helmet, buddy? You a synth too?” The woman, Marie, pulled out a pipe pistol and moved it slowly between them. “Take it off!” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, hey!” A man grabbed her arm. “Take it easy!” </p><p> </p><p>“Marie, you’re gonna get us all killed!” </p><p> </p><p>Nick felt the heavy step of Danse closing in beside him. He spared him a glance and wasn’t surprised to see his hand moving towards his holster. This whole situation was on its way downhill, fast. </p><p> </p><p>“There’s no need for this to get violent,” said Nick, hoping to address several people at once. “We’re here to help. Let’s calm down and focus on getting this place battened down.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, is there a problem over here, people?” The Minuteman approached from the other side. He was a young man, copper-skinned, with the bare makings of a goatee on his chin. Probably no more than 20, if Nick had to guess. His laser musket thrummed, a shot primed in the capacitor. “We don’t have time to stand around.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s a fucking synth, Jeremy!” Marie hissed. </p><p> </p><p>Jeremy turned to look at Nick. The sight registered, and his jaw dropped. “Whoa, shit. Look at you-” </p><p> </p><p>“If you’ve got time to stare, you’ve got time to stand around,” said Nick sharply. “Come on, now. What needs to be done?” </p><p> </p><p>After another few seconds of startled blinking, Jeremy seemed to come to his senses. “Ah- right, right. Okay...” </p><p> </p><p>“Jeremy!” Marie snapped. “Shoot it!” </p><p> </p><p>“Put the damn gun down, Marie. It’s trying to help. Everybody take a deep goddamn breath and let me think!” </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Marie obeyed, lowering the pistol. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got it under control. Now get back to work!” He ushered the crowd away with a few claps of his hands. With some hesitation, they obeyed. </p><p> </p><p>Nick smiled sympathetically. The poor guy looked like he had his hands full. A little unconfident, but he was probably half the age of these settlers. A newly-minted Minuteman-- most likely a local kid, given his familiarity with the others. “Appreciate the interference.”</p><p> </p><p>“Appreciate you not blowing us to bits with a laser,” said Jeremy. </p><p> </p><p>“Never crossed my mind. Nick Valentine, at your service. And this is Danse,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder at the silent man encased in metal. </p><p> </p><p>“Jeremy Lopez, Commonwealth Minutemen.” He briefly tipped his hat. </p><p> </p><p>“Put us to work, Jeremy. We’re here to help.” Nick was, at least, and if Danse had any protests about it he hadn’t spoken up.</p><p> </p><p>“Right, um. Help. How can you help… They’re-- trying to reinforce the ditch around the field, there, and this is the last of the Brahmin. We’ve got an old truck trailer over there to keep ‘em nice and dry--” </p><p> </p><p>A sudden crack of thunder echoed through the sky, causing most everyone to collectively jump in surprise. It was followed soon after by a second loud crack from the small slope to the south. One of the wooden shacks teetered, then collapsed in on itself with a rattling crash.</p><p> </p><p>“Holy shit!” one of the men shouted, throwing his shovel aside. “Mom!” </p><p> </p><p>“Ethel!” </p><p> </p><p>The settlers rushed towards the site of the fallen shack. Splintered wooden pieces lay in a pile on top of a wide sheet of metal-- the roof, flattening the shack’s interior. People scrambled to start pulling away the rubble, heavy and unwieldy pieces of wood and metal flashing. A hoarse woman’s voice screamed for help underneath.</p><p> </p><p>“Hang on, Ethel!” </p><p> </p><p>“God damn it, how are we gonna move this shit?” </p><p> </p><p>“Help! Help me! Timmy, help!”</p><p> </p><p>“Mom! I’m coming!” </p><p> </p><p>“Come on, people! Start digging!” </p><p> </p><p>Two settlers struggled with one of the heavy support beams. Nick cut in behind them, wrapping his arms around it to help dislodge the end. He barely got it lifted when another person appeared behind him to help-- Marie, wide-eyed and shaking when he glanced back at her. </p><p> </p><p>“Move aside!”  </p><p> </p><p>Like a polished metal behemoth, Danse pushed through the crowd and crouched beside the ruined shack. He slid his armored hands beneath the sheet of metal, then slowly rose. The hydraulics in the armor’s joints let out a hiss as they kicked into action, enabling him to lift the edge of the fallen roof. </p><p> </p><p>Little by little, he took the weight of the roof on his back. He took two careful steps to tilt it upright, revealing a bloody body lying beneath. “I’ll hold it. Get her out!” </p><p> </p><p>The woman’s son rushed in, weaving between the tangled remains of the shack. He scooped her up in his arms, then stumbled, clumsily working backwards to extricate her. Danse held the roof steady and secure until they were well clear, then let the sheet metal fall with a clatter. </p><p> </p><p>A chorus of cheers erupted, and the settlers ran to see to the injured woman. She was bleeding, given a few good knocks, but her eyes were open and she was moaning in pain. A woman that Nick surmised must be the local doctor hurried her away to be examined. </p><p> </p><p>By then, Danse had taken his helmet off, breathing heavily, exertion on his face. The settlers instantly crowded him, shook his hands, slapped the torso of his armor, and burst out in a chorus of hearty accolades. He stood perfectly still, a somewhat bewildered look on his face. </p><p> </p><p>“Hell yeah, buddy!” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you! Thank you so much, sir!” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, big guy! Could use your help over here!” </p><p> </p><p>Without a word, Danse was immediately ushered off to the other side of the settlement. </p><p> </p><p>Meanwhile, Jeremy took off his hat. “Shit, you and your buddy have good timing.” He let out a heavy exhale as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I just realized. <em> Nick Valentine. </em> You’re that detective.” </p><p> </p><p>“In the flesh,” said Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“I thought so. Sorry about the- Marie’s kind of touchy about-” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, no offense taken. I get it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Right. Appreciate it. I’m sorry for the trouble, but if you really don’t mind helping... “</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” Nick smiled. “You just tell me what to do.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A few hours later, all was once again calm in County Crossing. The low-lying fields of the settlement still held some standing water, but the ditches were draining away from the crops and houses. The last of the rain drifted away, the skies cleared, and it was going to be a calm, beautiful night. </p><p> </p><p>Eager to celebrate their success, the settlers gathered around a firepit, boiled up a batch of Uncle Morey’s famous molerat stew, and passed around a case of Gwinnett. Any attitude that Nick had received on arrival was drowned out by friendliness, and most of the settlers vied for the chance at conversation with him. Marie kept her distance, standing on the opposite side of the group from Nick at every available opportunity, but she didn’t say anything else to him. </p><p> </p><p>Somewhere in the middle of the festivities, Nick caught sight of Danse, <em> actually </em>out of his armor, sitting by himself off to the side. He was staring forlornly at the larger group when a woman approached him. She handed him a bowl of stew and a bottle of beer. The next time Nick looked, his former spot was empty. </p><p> </p><p>Nick declined the food and asked for only a taste of the booze (he couldn’t get drunk, but his taste receptors still appreciated even 200-year-old flat beer.) When he’d had enough of the party, he slipped out to check on Ethel in the back of the trailer. The old woman had her arm in a sling and some nasty bruises, but the doc said she was likely to make a full recovery. She was not overly pleased about her son fussing over her, nor about the three Brahmin currently crammed in the back of the trailer with her. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank God. Thank God. I was so worried, Mom…” </p><p> </p><p>“Timmy, I once fought off six raiders with a crowbar. Like hell am I gonna let my own house kill me.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick stood outside smoking a cigarette when Jeremy approached. The Minuteman nodded a greeting and tipped his hat. “Everything’s finally quiet, knock on wood. Thanks again for all your help, Mister Valentine. Your buddy, too.” </p><p> </p><p>“Always happy to lend a hand.” Nick smiled. “Where’d he get off to, anyhow?” </p><p> </p><p>“I guess he asked for a place to dry off his power armor,” said Jeremy. “The Robinsons let him use their storage shed. They dragged a couple of mattresses in there if you want to stay over. This much rain, the mirelurks’ll be out in force tonight.” </p><p> </p><p>“Think we might take you up on that.” Traveling in the mud in the dark, fighting swarms of mutant crabs? No thanks. Nick also hazarded a guess that Danse was pretty worn out. The settlers had taken full advantage of a big guy in power armor to assist in some manual labor. At one point, they’d had him pushing around man-sized shipping crates for some reason. </p><p> </p><p>Jeremy smiled. “If there’s anything else we can do, let me know.”</p><p> </p><p>“I might take you up on that, too,” said Nick. “We’re on the lookout for a missing person. A woman named Nora Carter. Short dark hair, pale skin, freckles. Do you know her?” </p><p> </p><p>“Carter?” Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “You mean like… General Carter?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, her.” Nick took a drag of his cigarette. “She was supposed to be somewhere nearly two weeks ago, but she never showed up. Any information you can give us would be great.” </p><p> </p><p>“Two weeks ago?” Jeremy raised his other eyebrow. “She was here.” </p><p> </p><p>“Here?” </p><p> </p><p>“County Crossing. Roundabout two weeks ago… on the 7th. Yeah, it was a Wednesday.” Jeremy folded his arms. “There was a pack of ferals moving through to the west. Folks got nervous they’d head into town, so I put in a radio call for some backup. The General happened to show up. She’s a hell of a shot with that rifle, you know.” </p><p> </p><p>The gears in Nick’s brain were turning, both figuratively and literally. “Did she mention where she was headed?” </p><p> </p><p>“Actually, yeah. She said she was going to Bunker Hill.” </p><p> </p><p>Bunker Hill. That followed. It was right across the river, a little ways into downtown. It was the next obvious safe stop on the way south. </p><p> </p><p>“Is she all right?” asked Jeremy. “Do you think she might be in trouble?” </p><p> </p><p>“Can’t say for sure. But I can tell you we’re gonna find out, and bring her home safe either way.” Nick hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. “You’ve given us a good lead. And if you hear or see anything else, anything at all, you let the Castle know about it. I’m counting on the Minutemen to send us word.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got it, Mister Valentine.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When he arrived at the storage shed, Danse was still awake. He’d taken apart the left leg of his armor and was in the middle of making some adjustments to it with a borrowed toolbox. An emptied bowl sat off to the side, and Danse was finishing off the last of the beer. When he heard Nick step in, he gave him a quick nod over his shoulder, set aside the bottle, then went back to his work. </p><p> </p><p>“Nora headed to Bunker Hill,” said Nick. He relayed the Minuteman’s account of meeting her, and Danse nodded as he listened. </p><p> </p><p>“We should be able to make it by tomorrow evening, barring any trouble.” </p><p> </p><p>“My thoughts exactly.” Nick surveyed the shed to get a better look at their accommodations. </p><p> </p><p>It was roughly twelve feet square, give or take a foot or so taken up by shelving. Danse had parked his power armor in one corner, and in the other two mattresses had been laid on the floor side by side. </p><p> </p><p>Nick had the sudden, dreadful vision of lying in silence all night with a wide-awake Danse next to him. Like the sleepover from hell. If there was anything he could say to avoid that fate, he’d give it a shot. “So, uh… Everything still working over there?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. I’m adjusting the sensitivity of the knee servos and the lift hydraulics. They worked well, but there was noticeably more strain on the left side.” Danse twisted a screwdriver to fiddle with something inside the armor frame. “I made educated guesses when I reassembled them, but it’s hard to fine-tune such things without field tests.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure. Makes sense.” </p><p> </p><p>"The last thing you want is one side weaker than the other. More wear and tear on the bearings, increases the odds of a malfunction. Having half the hydraulics give out under a heavy load would be disastrous.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, yeah. I know how that goes.” Except when Nick had to make adjustments, they were on his legs. </p><p> </p><p>Danse made an expression that <em> could </em>have been the makings of a smile. “Overall, my refurbishment was a huge success. It’s got a sleeker profile than my T-60 suit, a little heavier, but those are things I’ll become accustomed to. It feels good to be back in armor again.”  </p><p> </p><p>“Good to hear.” Honestly, too. That was easily the most Danse had ever said to him in one go, and it was kind of nice hearing the big guy unclench for five seconds. Clearly, this was one of his favorite topics for conversation. </p><p> </p><p>Nick headed to the mattress closer to the wall to claim it. He debated the merits of taking off his coat, pants, and shoes to let them dry. He didn’t feel any discomfort from wet clothing, but it was probably better not to let it sit against him. </p><p> </p><p>On the other hand, he’d rather go throw himself in an MRI and ricochet into pieces than bare his old metal frame in front of Danse. Nothing personal with him, for once; Nick just didn’t like removing the coat in front of people. About the only person nowadays who’d ever seen him without was Ellie, and she was the one who did his laundry. There was just something unpleasantly vulnerable about it, the equivalent of taking off his whole identity, stripping him to the faceless synth beneath.</p><p> </p><p>“I… take it for granted sometimes,” Danse murmured suddenly. His voice was a little lower and softer than usual, and there was the slight crinkle of thought on his brow. “I’m used to having power armor, seeing it everywhere. It’s easy to forget that most wastelanders have never been around it. Something that feels so routine to me is so impressive to them. I’m not used to such accolades from civilians.” </p><p> </p><p>Had Danse ever said something so oddly personal before? In his life? Nick looked back at him, wondering if his surprise was showing on his face. Danse was focusing on his tools and his work, and wouldn’t notice either way. </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” said Nick, as he took off his shoes, “you did a lot of good for them today. You saved that woman’s life.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse shook his head. “The longer it took to get her out of there, the more likely she would have been crushed or bled out. I was in the most obvious position to help.” </p><p> </p><p>“And you did. Then you let them boss you around all afternoon, too, without a word of complaint.”</p><p> </p><p>“It was nothing pressing or difficult.” </p><p> </p><p>“Not to you, maybe. But little things like that make a big difference out here. It’s just like you said. Routine to you, but it means the whole world to them.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse finished whatever adjustment he was making, then turned to sit on the ground. He leaned back against the leg, fiddling with the screwdriver in his hands. “Then it was the first time since the Brotherhood that I’ve done anything meaningful.” </p><p> </p><p>Boy, was this not a conversation Nick was expecting to have. Nor was it one he felt anywhere near prepared for. But he wasn’t about to try to stifle it or steer him away from it. If he needed to talk something out, Nick was willing to give him the space. </p><p> </p><p>All the space seemed good for was more silence. Danse stared endlessly out the shed window, as though looking at something in the distance. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m impressed with your amicability, Valentine,” he said at last. “You seem uncommonly good with people. You handled yourself well with them.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” said Nick. “Guess I’ve always been a people person.” </p><p> </p><p>“Not something I can say comes easily to me.” He folded up a knee and rested an arm on it. “You conduct yourself with a great deal of natural confidence and poise. It’s a good leadership skill. People are inclined to listen to you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Eh, nothing fancy as that. Just some good old-fashioned manners goes a long way.” </p><p> </p><p>Was that an actual smirk from Danse? “I feel most would have a hard time being polite with a gun in their face.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hardly the first time somebody took offense to this gruesome mug.” Nick settled down on the mattress, leaning back to recline against the wall. He kept his coat on. “Someone was telling me earlier, that woman had her daughter taken by the Institute. Watched the replacement turn on their old settlement in a synth attack. I can’t blame her for being suspicious of me.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “I imagine many people are.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yep. And I’ve seen my share of ugly over the years.” Nick took off his hat, running a hand over the shiny bald plates of his head. “It’d be easy to get upset and write people off as a whole. Though I’ve always believed you get what you give.</p><p> </p><p>“If I meet ugly with ugly, then I’m ugly too. I get shot-- and all those people walk away believing that woman was right. But if I can take that ugly and turn it back with kindness, then maybe I can change some minds. Maybe I can lend a hand. Maybe I can make them think twice before they heap that bile on the next person they decide they don’t like.” </p><p> </p><p>He heard Danse let out a long, slow sigh. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t get me wrong,” Nick went on, “I’m no saint. Some folks are so poisoned by hate, they’re not worth the headache. But most people aren’t. They’re scared, or hurt, or they just don’t know any better. Doesn’t make their ugly right. But it doesn’t make them a lost cause, either.” </p><p> </p><p>The silence was back, and more uncomfortable than ever. This time it was radiating entirely from Danse. Once again, Nick was determined to give him all the time he needed to soak in it. If it ended up lasting the rest of the night, then so be it. </p><p> </p><p>But it didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>“There’s something obviously unspoken between us,” said Danse, in that same soft, tentative tone. </p><p> </p><p>Oh boy. “Is there? I didn’t notice.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll assume you mean that sarcastically.” As though it wasn’t obvious. Danse took a deep breath. “I think it’s best, for the sake of this investigation, that we get it out in the open and acknowledge it. Please, say what you want to say. I’m ready to listen.” </p><p> </p><p>Well, props to him for being the one to confront it. “Don’t know what you think I want to say to you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, you do. I’m well aware of the… irony of my circumstances.” He lowered his head slightly, drawing his shoulders up. “You deserve the chance to speak your mind to me, given our previous… interactions.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick sighed and shook his head. “I’m not gonna do that, Danse.” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t need to hold back. Paladin Carter isn’t here.” </p><p> </p><p>All right. Now he was annoyed. “Yeah? So you think I want to lecture you? Rub your nose in it? Tell you ‘I told you so?’” </p><p> </p><p>“You’d have every right.” </p><p> </p><p>“And what good is gloating gonna do? I get to kick you while you’re down, and act like just as much a jackass as you?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. </p><p> </p><p>“You can punish yourself all you like, but don’t ask me to do it for you. I’m not going to stand here all smug and self-righteous and say you deserve it. Nobody deserves what happened to you, Danse. And me taking you to task isn’t going to make it right, or make it make sense.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse lowered his head even further. His eyes closed. Nick turned away, at least giving him the dignity of not staring at him. </p><p> </p><p>“Now, I wanna clear the air here, while we’re at it. I’m not holding anything against you. I wouldn’t have come if I thought you were irredeemable, if you were too poisoned to ever do better. I forgave you before I ever set foot in that bunker, and that’s all I can really do. I can’t give you peace, Danse. You’re going to have to find it yourself.” </p><p> </p><p>He allowed him a few moments of silence before looking his direction again. Nick fully expected Danse to be scowling, angry, embarrassed. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d stood up and stormed out. </p><p> </p><p>But when the soldier looked back, he wasn’t scowling. His mouth was drawn thin and tight, and for once his brown eyes showed something other than stern pride and steel. Frailty. Humility. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re right,” he said, his voice the slightest bit thick. “I don’t need you to tell me I was wrong. For… punishment, or catharsis, or whatever other purpose it might serve. It’s not fair of me to ask that of you.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick was taken aback. He felt the same slight guilt that comes with punishing a misbehaving dog. “No. It isn’t. But you realize it now, Danse. That’s the first step in moving forward.” </p><p> </p><p>“It isn’t enough.” Danse gazed out the window again. “I’m not asking to be let off the hook. The fact of the matter is, my identity has nothing to do with it. I behaved disrespectfully, and hatefully, and I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for the way I treated you.” </p><p> </p><p>Well, color him impressed. It was refreshing to find out Danse had the decency and maturity not to need step-by-step hand holding through an apology. Nick honestly expected he’d have to draw him a diagram. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Danse. Apology accepted.” Then, eager to get this conversation over with, he offered a smile. “Now, whaddya say we start over? Clean slate. Nick and Danse, no more baggage.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse sighed, letting his shoulders slump. “I would appreciate that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then consider it done.” </p><p> </p><p>Thank God that was over. Nick fully expected a bit of lingering tension from the tightly-wound soldier. But as long as Danse wasn’t slinking around on the defensive, warily expecting to get called out every second of time they spent together, he could deal with a little awkwardness.</p><p> </p><p>Case in point, Danse set the screwdriver aside and stood up. Brushing his fingers back through his hair with one hand, he gestured out the door with the other. “I’m going to take a walk, get some fresh air. Please retire at your leisure. You don’t need to wait up for me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure.” Nick couldn’t blame him. It was obviously difficult for him to get that vulnerable in a conversation, and he imagined Danse needed a little space to decompress. </p><p> </p><p>(He also wondered if Danse had forgotten that Nick didn’t need to sleep. If he was waiting to come back after the older synth had “retired,” he was going to be waiting all night. Ah, well… maybe he’d throw the guy a bone. Lie down, close his eyes, pretend to sleep and do those diagnostics he’d been putting off.)</p><p> </p><p>“Good evening, Mister Valentine.” Danse gave a nod before he headed out the door. </p><p> </p><p><em> Poor bastard, </em> thought Nick. <em> Still waiting for somebody to tell him what to do.  </em></p><p> </p><p>It made sense, after all his time in the Brotherhood. All these years, Danse had the security of a whole chain of command ready to dictate his actions and feelings to him, ready to reprimand him if he didn’t do as he was told. It was easy to know what to do when you didn’t have to think for yourself. </p><p> </p><p>That sure as hell wasn’t Nick’s style. But he could imagine what a nightmare it must be, having structure like that, purpose and drive and goals, having a whole organization at your back and on your side, and then losing it all in an afternoon.</p><p> </p><p>Still, Nick had meant every word he said. He may not like Danse, but he wouldn’t have bothered forgiving him, much less teaming up with him if there was no more to him than blind obedience and hate. Nobody told him to lift that roof off the old woman. Nobody told him to work like a pack mule for a bunch of middle-of-nowhere settlers. There wasn’t even a lick of technology around to incentivize him. Somewhere under all that steel and grease and muscle and hurt, there was still a man who could do good because it was good, and not because anybody told him to do it.</p><p> </p><p>He shifted to lie back on the mattress, get started on those diagnostics and feigning sleep. As he lowered down, he felt the familiar twinge of a screw coming loose in his hand. That one had been giving him trouble lately. A little stripped, and probably loosened up by the thorough drenching he’d had that afternoon. He reached into his coat pocket for his trusty screwdriver, only to find it missing. Left back at the office in his hurry to depart. </p><p> </p><p>Ah, well. He could borrow one. Sitting up onto his knees, he crawled over to snag one from the open toolbox by Danse’s armor. He glanced out the window, and it realized what Danse had been looking at before.</p><p> </p><p>Off in the distance, far to the south, an illuminated shadow hung over the sea. Moored to the airport tower, The Prydwen’s lights nestled against her silhouette, as bright and warm as a cluster of stars.</p><p> </p><p>Outside, Danse leaned against the nearby shack, watching her glow. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I initially worried that it was too soon for them to address the "synth elephant in the room," but I think it's important for their future partnership that they clear the air sooner rather than later. This is certainly not the last reckoning Danse will have to do with his previous rude behavior, but I genuinely don't think Nick would take any pleasure in being smug and kicking a guy while he's down. </p><p>For all his socially awkward tendencies, Danse is actually pretty emotionally mature as far as interpersonal relationships go. He apologizes a lot, and absolutely considers the feelings of others (it's his OWN that he ignores or neglects!) He's even the only companion who takes the blame in the breakup/makeup conversations. His shitty bigoted opinions are a huge blind spot, but he's absolutely capable of apologizing without needing somebody to drag him and tell him he was wrong first. </p><p>Next chapter: Something stinks in Bunker Hill. And it isn't the brahmin.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Nobody's Fault But Mine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nora and Danse's last conversation, lies and intrigue in Bunker Hill, and a mysterious stranger (not that one.)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<em> Like the wind that shakes the boughs, he moves me with a smile. <br/></em><em>The difficult I’ll do right now. The impossible will take a little while.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Sometimes she didn’t realize she was doing it, but Nora had a charming habit of singing under her breath. </p><p> </p><p>The one time he’d mentioned it to her, they were in the middle of a sweep-and-retrieve mission in an old office building. The amplifier in her power armor helmet picked up her voice as she dug through a filing cabinet, and when Danse asked if she liked that song, she laughed nervously and stopped. </p><p> </p><p>Ever since then, he didn’t say anything when he heard her singing. He liked her voice, liked to see what parts of the songs she was drawn to. It was usually the same old tunes they played on Diamond City Radio, but every so often she’d break out a snippet of something else, some prewar melody only she still remembered. Either way he’d simply listen, fascinated, and usually caught himself smiling afterward. </p><p> </p><p>She’d come down into the bunker that day with a duffel bag of supplies, a collaboration with Haylen. Food, water, some snacks, a bottle of whiskey, and whatever reading material they could scrounge up. Included in the provisions this time were fresh vegetables and a slab of salted radstag meat, wrapped in newspaper. It was the freshest food Danse had had since his last meal on The Prydwen, and Nora was determined to make it a treat. She had the roast bubbling away in a pot over the firepit, and she sang along to the radio as she tended it. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> I say I’ll go through fire, and I’ll go through fire. As he wants it, so it will be… </em>” </p><p> </p><p>When he wasn’t watching her bob her head or gently sway her hips to the song, Danse was meant to be repairing her chestplate at the workbench. He’d nearly choked when he noticed the bullet holes. Why Nora insisted on going without when she had a full suit of power armor at her disposal was beyond him, and he tried not to let on that it scared the hell out of him. Doubly so when he couldn’t be there to watch her back. </p><p> </p><p>But the simple fact was, he couldn’t. Nora was part of something bigger than him, something better than him. She was Paladin Carter of the Brotherhood of Steel, and she had to faithfully serve them where he no longer could. Danse was a dead traitor, as far as they were concerned, and if anyone ever found out that he wasn’t, he was kill-on-sight. Despite the complex situation, he believed in the Brotherhood and their cause. He would never risk jeopardizing their mission or undermining Maxson’s authority. No matter how much he longed for it, he had to let her go to them on her own. </p><p> </p><p>“Here. I’ve replaced the surface and bolstered it. It’ll take a heavy caliber at close range to do anything better than bounce off.” Danse finished attaching the final strap, then held up the chestplate to show her. </p><p> </p><p>Nora looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Looks better than good as new. Thank you, Danse.” </p><p> </p><p>“Anytime. Though,” he added gravely, “I would prefer you avoid taking that kind of damage if you can possibly help it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Believe me, I try.” She chuckled softly. “I was having a nice quiet day, until those raiders came along to ruin it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Where was this?” </p><p> </p><p>“Over near Ticonderoga.” Nora tapped her spoon on the rim of the pot to clean it off. “One dumb punk with a souped-up hunting rifle.” </p><p> </p><p>That was an odd place for a mission. “Doing some retrieval over there?” </p><p> </p><p>He noticed the slight hesitation before she answered. “Yeah, something like that. Roast’s ready.”  </p><p> </p><p>The topic didn’t come up again while they ate, sitting side by side on his bed. Instead, Nora talked about Sanctuary. It had come a long way since the last time Danse was able to visit it with her. The new water purifier was up and running, the crops were coming in well, and they’d just finished building a trading post, bringing in caps and goods. She was pleased with the progress, excited at the evolution of her old subdivision from barren ruins to a bustling community, and a northwestern hub for the Minutemen. Her eyes lit up and her voice became animated as she spoke, her enthusiasm infectious. </p><p> </p><p>She went briefly quiet suddenly. “You know, Danse… if you wanted to come with me next time, there’s plenty of room for you.” </p><p> </p><p>He paused to finish chewing and swallowing the bite in his mouth. “If you’d like me to. I’m always happy to accompany you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I would,” she said, tucking the messy ends of her bangs behind her ear. “But I meant more like… you coming to stay.” </p><p> </p><p>“Stay?” He looked up at her. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. You know… live with us in Sanctuary.” She fiddled nervously with her fork. “Sturges could always use help with the maintenance, and I think you two would get along. Or if you just wanted somewhere with more people around… I worry about you being by yourself all the time.” Her gray eyes met his and her lips pursed in a quirky, hopeful little smile. </p><p> </p><p>Now Danse was the one hesitating before he answered. “I’m sorry. I don’t think that would be wise.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why not?” </p><p> </p><p>“Because it’s dangerous. I can’t be seen near any of your settlements.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve never seen a vertibird out by Sanctuary. There’s no reason for the Brotherhood to come anywhere near there.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re there.” </p><p> </p><p>“And I do my business with them elsewhere.” </p><p> </p><p>“I suppose you do. But…” He already knew she wasn’t going to like where this was going. “There’s also the fact that I’m dangerous myself. There’s no way of knowing when the Institute will use me.” </p><p> </p><p>She blinked. Her smile slowly faded. “They’re not going to use you, Danse.”</p><p> </p><p>“I was created so they could use me. That’s the only reason I exist.” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t say that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Refusing to acknowledge it doesn’t make it any less true.” </p><p> </p><p>He recognized that he sounded cold, that his tone was bordering on angry. He took a moment to get it back under control before he said anything further. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what plans the Institute had in mind for me. They could implement them at any moment and use me against my will. It’s my responsibility to protect others from that. I need to stay away from human beings, from people I could hurt.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not going to hurt anyone, Danse,” she said vehemently. “You’d never let that happen.” </p><p> </p><p>“My good intentions are irrelevant. Machines don’t have intentions.” </p><p> </p><p>From the look on her face, Nora was the one he’d just hurt. Her frown sharpened and her brows knitted together in dismay. At last she tore her gaze away from him, in what he thought looked like disgust. Her bowl was set aside on the table, and she folded her arms.</p><p> </p><p>He had trouble identifying what he was currently programmed to feel. Guilt, regret, something along those lines. Frustration, perhaps. None of that should have been news to her. Nora was in the Brotherhood of Steel. No matter what she believed about him personally, she should know the danger inherent in his very existence. Did a firearm have intentions when somebody put their finger on the trigger? </p><p> </p><p>The fact of the matter was, he was a tool. A weapon. All the good intentions in the world wouldn’t save innocents when the Institute decided to take control of him. When the personality called Danse ceased to be, and M7-97 emerged from wherever it was sleeping in his brain. </p><p> </p><p>He suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore either. </p><p> </p><p>They sat there for several minutes, only the radio undercutting the silence. </p><p> </p><p>“You know, I really hate it when you talk like that,” Nora murmured at last. “I hate it when you act so callous.” </p><p> </p><p>“Callous?” </p><p> </p><p>“When you treat yourself like a machine. As though a synth is the same thing as a goddamn toaster.” She shook her head at him. “You say shit like that to others, too, and you especially do it to yourself. Maybe you think it’s true, Danse, but I really, honestly hate that you do.” </p><p> </p><p>He frowned. “I’m sorry it upsets you. But it <em> is </em>true.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’d think you of all people would know by now that it isn’t that simple.” </p><p> </p><p>“The Brotherhood teaches--” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, of <em> course </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nora--” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t. I swear to God, Danse, I don’t want to hear it right now.” </p><p> </p><p>She stood up and she stormed across the room, shoulders tense. One hand came to rest atop a cabinet, and the other clenched a fist. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve heard it from you and I’ve heard it from Maxson, and no matter how many times I hear it, it still doesn’t make sense to me. I can’t buy that honor and glory bullshit when everything inside me tells me it’s wrong. I can’t listen to it anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse stood up slowly. “What are you saying?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m done with the Brotherhood, Danse.” She sighed, resigned. “I’m not going back.” </p><p> </p><p>His chest tightened. “What? Why?” </p><p> </p><p>“Really?” Nora whirled on him, incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course not.” His voice slipped naturally into a commanding tone, as though he was still her sponsor. As though he still had any rank at all. “Every soldier has moments when they question orders, but it’s your duty to push through that. It’s your duty to serve the greater cause. You need to find the strength within yourself to keep going. You cannot turn your back on the Brotherhood, <em> Paladin Carter </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“For God’s sake, don’t call me that.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s your rightful title.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want it anymore.” </p><p> </p><p>“But you took an oath. They need you.” </p><p> </p><p>“No! They needed <em> you </em>!”</p><p> </p><p>Abruptly, all the softness was gone from her voice. It was a shout, almost a growl, angry and torn. </p><p> </p><p>“You did everything for them. You pledged your whole life to them, and they threw you away like it was nothing. Like you were worth <em> nothing </em> .” Nora slammed her fist against the cabinet. “If Maxson had his way, I would have shot you in the head and called it ‘honorable.’ And you would have died believing it was <em> right </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>She closed her eyes, and they were bright and wet when she opened them. “You’re so goddamn selfless, you don’t even care that they used you. But I do. I will never forgive them for what they did to you.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse blinked, shocked. He knew Nora had strong feelings about his situation, but this? “There are greater things at stake than one disgraced soldier. It shouldn’t be about <em> me </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re right. And it isn’t,” she said. “But you were the last straw. You can call me selfish if you want. I’m fucking <em>done </em>with being used. I’m done with people I care about being used, getting taken away from me for some so-called greater purpose. I’m not going to stand by and watch it happen. Not anymore, Danse. Never again.” </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t know what to say. There were a thousand things on the tip of his tongue. Protests. Reprimands. Insistence that she keep her oath. Didn't she care about the Brotherhood’s mission? About saving humanity? If he was so important, then didn’t she care that he’d put his reputation on the line for her, vouched for her, personally recommended her? </p><p> </p><p>(What reputation? All his accolades, all his accomplishments, all his honor had been annihilated, wiped off the record like they’d never happened. They wouldn’t even give him the dignity of a recorded death. Paladin Danse had been simply erased from the archives, a faceless traitor who’d never really existed at all. When he thought of it that way...) </p><p> </p><p>But this wasn’t about the Brotherhood, or their mission. None of that mattered to her. She was angry about Danse. Not her oath, not her rank. Danse. The synth. The machine. </p><p> </p><p>He had to fix this. He had to help her see that the fate of one machine was a small matter in the grand scale of things. That humanity as a whole was more important than personal feelings. That she didn’t need to carry this hurt, this guilt, because of him. He had no idea how to begin with the rest of it. But he could start there. </p><p> </p><p> It took everything he had to fight back the quiver of desperation that tried to slip into his voice. “Nora. What happened to me-- it wasn’t your fault.” </p><p> </p><p>She shook her head. “It wasn’t yours either.” </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t get the chance to say anything else before she threw herself at him. She put her arms around him and fell against his chest in a strong embrace. Danse reciprocated, holding her small, warm frame tight against his. Her chest shook with the occasional muffled sob, but if there were tears, he didn’t see or feel them. </p><p> </p><p>They ended up sinking to the bed, still tangled together, shifting until they rested comfortably entwined. Time stretched on, and they slowly found calm. Nora stroked the nape of his neck and traced circles on his broad shoulders. He slid his fingers through her hair and caressed the small of her back. She lay so close he could feel her heartbeat beside his own. They were so similar. Alive. Human. It was easy to forget that his wasn’t real. </p><p> </p><p>For the first time since the day his life fell to pieces, Danse felt whole. Content. Like himself, and not a confused mind trapped in a synthetic body. Like a man, and not a machine still desperately trying to act like one. </p><p> </p><p>He nearly fell asleep, and thought that Nora had too when she slowly sat up. She cupped his face and looked him in the eyes, then brought their lips together. </p><p> </p><p>He’d only been kissed once before then. He was ashamed to admit that he froze, at first. But after that, he couldn’t kiss her enough. </p><p> </p><p>By the time she broke away, a long time later, his lips ached and his real-enough heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest. Carefully, reluctantly, she slid out of his arms. Still crouching by the bed, she smiled at him, touched his cheek, and slid her fingers through his beard. </p><p> </p><p>“Leave this to me,” she whispered, soft as when she sang. “You look exhausted, Danse. At least try to get some sleep?”</p><p> </p><p>He hummed his assent, and stayed horizontal on the mattress. “I’ll try.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good.” Nora kissed him again. She stayed by the bedside, so close he could feel her breath, stroking his head until he fell asleep. </p><p> </p><p>By the time he woke up, it was morning. The dishes had been cleaned up and the food put away, and Nora’s chestplate was gone along with her. Danse didn’t know what he was “leaving to her,” but something about the way she said it made him guess it wasn’t the dishes. </p><p> </p><p>There was a note sitting on his workbench. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Minuteman business. Back in a few days. Think about Sanctuary?  </em></p><p><em> Please take care of yourself. </em> <em> <br/></em>  <em> Love, Nora” </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>There was something primally satisfying about the pop of a super mutant’s skull. </p><p> </p><p>For one thing, it was far bigger than a human’s. Bigger target.  Bigger boom. The gray matter, green flesh, and red blood made a spectacular combination as they burst, even better when they all charred white, vaporized by laserfire. </p><p> </p><p>That was the puerile explanation, the same glee of a nasty little boy relishing in obscene gore. Some soldiers got fixated on that stuff, got some sick high from violence, and Danse never fully trusted any who did. There were scant few steps between honorable soldiers and the raiders who tortured for fun and used their victims for decor. An honorable soldier knew that and took it to heart. </p><p> </p><p>For another thing, it was a<em> super mutant </em>. They had been human once, but now were disgusting monsters who preyed on the weak and left a trail of brutality everywhere they went. Human beings were toys and food for them, in that order. Every super mutant destroyed was one less horror to haunt the wasteland. One less abomination threatening humanity. Cleansing the world of them was the Brotherhood of Steel’s duty, even for a soldier no longer fit to serve them. </p><p> </p><p>But for Danse, killing super mutants was deeper than violence, darker than duty. It was personal. It was hate. Every mutie he slaughtered was a pleasure, another tally for his vendetta. One more in Cutler’s honor. No matter how many he butchered, it wouldn’t bring his best friend back, but it soothed him all the same. If everyone was allowed a vice, then let this endless vengeance be his. </p><p> </p><p>Downtown Boston was always dangerous, but the trade routes they traveled were normally better-patrolled than this. He and Valentine had come across the mutant raiding party within sight of Bunker Hill, and Danse had run in so quickly he didn’t bother putting on his helmet. </p><p> </p><p>Thankfully, the old synth was amenable to performing a little public service. Danse was surprisingly relieved. He had no idea how he would have responded had Valentine given him a bleeding heart “mutants are people too” spiel. He suspected it would have been twice as brutal and ugly as the muties themselves. </p><p> </p><p>But Valentine had been programmed with that much sense, at least. He was plenty eager to drop the big bastards, keeping to the edges and knocking them down with potshots. Meanwhile, Danse wrought his typical destruction big and loud, front and center, taking out four brutes and a suicider before he even had to reload his rifle. </p><p> </p><p>The master lay on the ground before him, its crude armor smeared with its companions’ blood. Its leg was crippled by one of Valentine’s shots, and it crawled pathetically, trying to reach a dropped board to fight back. </p><p> </p><p>Danse slammed his foot on its chest to pin it and fired three shots into its skull. Then another. If it looks dead, one more in the head. </p><p> </p><p>(Every time, he saw Cutler’s half-mutated face. Deformed, grotesque, turning green. His swollen tongue could barely moan Danse’s name, and his still-human eyes seemed to plead with him. The only comfort he could offer was a merciful death. Three shots. Then another. If it looks dead, one more in the head.) </p><p> </p><p>“Going weapons cold.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Six today, Cutler. Ad victoriam, brother. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Well. That about takes care of that,” said Valentine, with ever the talent for inappropriate understatement. “Maybe we better get you a towel?” </p><p> </p><p>Combat was over. Danse’s brain slowly emerged from the fog of battle-instinct. He took a few deep breaths to force calm as his adrenaline spiked and faded (or the synth equivalent of adrenaline, anyway.) He glanced down. The front of his armor was spattered with blood, and he couldn’t quite remember how it got there. </p><p> </p><p>“I think the people of Bunker Hill will forgive me for the mess,” he said. </p><p> </p><p>“Imagine so.” Valentine knelt by one of the crumpled mutant corpses, plucking a fallen pipe rifle from its side. He gave it a brief examination, tested out the scope, then strapped it on. “Kind of funny there aren’t more caravan guards around. This side of the monument’s usually pretty peaceful.” </p><p> </p><p>“I noticed that as well.” Danse stepped over the dead mutants to continue walking. “Bunker Hill won’t remain a trading hub for very long if they let super mutants close enough to pick off their business.” </p><p> </p><p>The white tower of the Bunker Hill monument loomed overhead as they circled the walls to the front gate. Apparently, all the caravan guards who were supposed to be patrolling the vicinity were gathered here, operating a security checkpoint.</p><p> </p><p>The two guards at the front of the checkpoint gave them both a suspicious once-over. Valentine’s was substantially more suspicious, and Danse was starting to get the sense that the old synth was used to it. “State your business,” said one of the guards. </p><p> </p><p>There seemed to be an unspoken agreement between them to let Valentine do all the talking. “Business,” he said glibly. “Just here to do a little trading.” </p><p> </p><p>“Great. You can head in.” </p><p> </p><p>“Any reason why your patrols aren’t out and about today?” </p><p> </p><p>The other guard eyed the first before answering. “We’ve had a little trouble of late.” </p><p> </p><p>“What kind of trouble?</p><p> </p><p>“The bad kind,” said the first guard. “Now, you here to trade, or you here to ask questions?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry.” Valentine shrugged, and the guards stepped aside to let them in. </p><p> </p><p>As he usually did, Danse took a moment of silence and spared a thought for the fallen soldiers in whose memory the monument was erected. Then he followed Valentine into the marketplace.</p><p> </p><p>Bunker Hill seemed the most civilized spot in the downtown area. On the surface it looked perfectly safe, far less seedy than that filthy hole Goodneighbor. But Danse had never liked it here. It took an observant eye to notice how curated the pristine image was. How shifty the people were, every other glance a knowing one, a big unspoken secret hiding in plain sight. There was something dishonest going on beneath the surface here, and he didn’t like it at all. </p><p> </p><p>“If you visit Bunker Hill, you talk to the traders. And Nora’s practically a minor celebrity,” Valentine mused. “Let’s ask around.” </p><p> </p><p>The marketplace was bustling as always, traders at their stands, resting caravaners sitting around the tables and stools. The mingling odors of cooked food, cigarette smoke, and brahmin dung wafted through the air, giving the whole place an uneasy atmosphere. </p><p> </p><p>The armored synth and the more-obvious synth turned plenty of heads as they walked, but most of the civilians seemed polite enough not to outright stare. They saved that for after Valentine moved past them. </p><p> </p><p>And yet, the old synth seemed oblivious to it. “You know,” said Valentine, “you’d be less obtrusive if you stepped out of that thing.” </p><p> </p><p>“And leave it for someone to steal?” Danse scoffed. “That would be asinine.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m just saying.” He pulled a cigarette out of his coat pocket.</p><p> </p><p>Danse lowered his voice. “No offense intended, Valentine, but I don’t think I’m the one they’re staring at.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh! Excuse me!” </p><p> </p><p>A woman bumped into him, bouncing off his armor and nearly dropping the satchel of food she was carrying. Danse reached down reflexively to steady her. </p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me, Miss,” he said. “My apologies. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” </p><p> </p><p>The woman gazed up at him in wonderment. She was fair, slender, blonde curls, the type most would consider pretty. Her blue eyes searched Danse’s face for a moment, and then she made a sweet, knowing smile. </p><p> </p><p>“No harm done, handsome,” she said. She adjusted her satchel in one arm, and knocked on his torso with the other. “I like the getup.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ah… thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>She giggled, then stepped around him. “Bye.” </p><p> </p><p>He heard Valentine chuckle, and felt a sudden swell of indignance about it. “What?” he muttered. </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing.” The old synth lit his cigarette and walked off without another word. </p><p> </p><p>(Valentine’s smoking habit continually vexed him. Danse wasn’t bothered by the smell; nearly all soldiers smoked on occasion, just as they all drank on occasion. He could take or leave it himself, but he used to enjoy the sense of camaraderie in having a smoke with his brothers and sisters from time to time. </p><p> </p><p>No, with Valentine, it was more the <em> functional </em>mechanics that bothered him. The synth wasn’t at risk of ill health effects, but surely, he couldn’t actually inhale? Was it some type of oral fixation, or simply a matter of aesthetics? He did seem deeply concerned about aesthetics…)</p><p> </p><p>Danse watched the old synth saunter up to one of the merchants and strike up a conversation. He dropped a few caps on a screwdriver and another pack of cigarettes, then seamlessly turned the subject to the situation with the guards. </p><p> </p><p>“This is more customers than we’ve had in the past week,” said the merchant, wiping down the counter of her stall. The nametag on her mechanic’s jumpsuit read “Deb.” “A lot of bad business in the neighborhood, and it’s scared some people off.” </p><p> </p><p>“I take it you don’t mean the ‘unfortunate mutfruit futures’ kind of business,” said Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>“No, the ‘people hurt and killed’ kind.”</p><p> </p><p>“Raiders?” </p><p> </p><p>“Nope. That’s the scary part. It’s… ah… well.” Deb shuddered. “Rumor I heard, it was synths. The creepy robot ones.” </p><p> </p><p>“Really?” Valentine took a drag of his cigarette. “That’s unusual.” </p><p> </p><p>There was a moment of pregnant silence before Valentine added, “it’s all right, ma’am. I know what I look like.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry! Just didn’t want to be rude…” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m a far cry from the usual dumb buckets of bolts. So never mind that. Can you tell me how many? Who’s been attacked?”</p><p> </p><p>“All sorts. Traders, a few customers. All small groups, all people leaving the Hill.”</p><p> </p><p>“Any pattern that you can think of? Certain types of goods?” </p><p> </p><p>“No. None at all. Nothing gets stolen. It’s just so… Stockton’s afraid they’ll start targeting the Hill next, so he’s got his people all concentrated here. The attacks don’t seem to happen when the guards are around, and nobody’s found any synths, either, and…”</p><p> </p><p>Valentine seemed to have the conversation well in hand, and Danse didn’t like standing there, looming. He stepped away and looked around the market. There had to be something productive he could do, other than shadowing the synth detective like some kind of silent sentry. </p><p> </p><p>He spotted a trader with a selection of brightly-colored boxes and well-kept firearms on display. An arms merchant. Every time he’d ever traveled somewhere like this with Nora, she stocked up on ammunition. He stepped up to the counter and cleared his throat to get the man’s attention. </p><p> </p><p>The gentleman was more inclined to be forthcoming after Danse bought some fusion cells from him. He recognized Nora from her physical description, and further when he mentioned the public role most in the Commonwealth likely knew her by. </p><p> </p><p>“Carter? Yeah. General of the Minuteman. I’ve seen her. She was here a week or so ago.” </p><p> </p><p>“Could you be more precise? Two weeks?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, that sounds about right, last time I saw her. She’s getting to be a familiar face around here.”</p><p> </p><p>That was odd. Danse had never known her to have much business in the Bunker Hill area. “You say she’s been here often?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve been keeping my stock of .308 up just for her and her pal.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, her ‘pal’? Who do you mean?” </p><p> </p><p>“The other guy, always flanking her. Sunglasses. Plaid jacket and a scarf. What’s his name… don’t know if I got it ever.” The merchant shrugged. “Anyway, that’s all I can really tell you. I haven’t seen her in a while now.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse thanked the man and stepped away. He realized a few seconds later that he was scowling. </p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me.” </p><p> </p><p>A man. Plaid jacket and a scarf, always flanking Nora when she traveled through Bunker Hill. He tried to recall Nora’s associates that he’d previously met. It couldn’t have been Valentine, for obvious reasons. Unless the merchant’s description was exceptionally obtuse, it wasn’t her Mr. Handy, or the other Miss Nanny. That nosy reporter was a woman, as was that uncouth cage fighter. If it was Garvey, anyone would identify him as a Minuteman first and foremost. </p><p> </p><p>Who in the hell was this man, and why hadn’t Nora ever mentioned him before?</p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse looked up. He was standing in front of another shop, this one operated by a well-dressed older gentleman. The gentleman stared at him with an unmistakably nervous look on his face. Perhaps because Danse’s armor was blocking access to the entire stall. </p><p> </p><p>“Pardon me, sir,” he said, stepping aside. “I’ll move.” </p><p> </p><p>“Do you have a geiger counter?” asked the gentleman. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, it comes standard on all models of power armor,” Danse replied. </p><p> </p><p>“I see.” The gentleman let out an irritable huff and settled down on his stool. </p><p> </p><p>What an odd question. “Why do you ask? Is there some concern about radiation in the area, sir?” </p><p> </p><p>“No more than usual,” muttered the gentleman. “Never mind.” </p><p> </p><p>Synth attacks. Nora’s apparent new “friend.” Now this bizarre old man? Bunker Hill got more and more suspicious every time he set foot here.  </p><p> </p><p>At least he could try to get something out of the old man while they were already mired in this strange conversation. “Sir, perhaps you could be of some assistance. I’m looking for a friend who’s gone missing from this location, and I need to know if you’ve seen her.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m afraid I likely haven’t. I’m an extremely busy man.”</p><p> </p><p>“Anything you can tell me will be greatly appreciated. Her life may be in danger,” Danse said sternly. “Her name is Nora Carter. She has short dark hair, freckles, gray eyes.” </p><p> </p><p>“Carter…” The gentleman murmured. “No, sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know anybody by that description.” </p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure?” </p><p> </p><p>“Positive. As I told you, I’m a very busy man. I spend all my time with my nose to this desk, trying to keep these caravans running on time.” </p><p> </p><p>Anger pearled inside him.  <em> He’s lying. She’s been here. The merchants have seen her, and he’s lying.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He swallowed down the urge to shout, or to grab the old man by the collar and drag him across the counter. It wasn’t going to help their investigation if he got thrown out of Bunker Hill for assaulting an elderly caravaner. “I see. Thank you for your time.” </p><p> </p><p>He stepped away and returned to the seating area. Valentine was already sitting at a table, smoking a cigarette. There was a second chair waiting for him, but sitting would mean getting out of his power armor in this den of snakes. Instead, Danse stood alongside the table, learning in close. </p><p> </p><p>“Something is very wrong here,” he snapped. </p><p> </p><p>He told Valentine what he’d learned about Nora and her “friend.”. The synth played cool when Danse mentioned the old man’s lie, leaning back a bit in his chair and letting his mechanical eyes dart in that direction to look at him. </p><p> </p><p>“Good work.” Valentine blew a little puff of smoke. It curled out from between the cracks in his jaw. “Didn’t think you had it in you to be discreet.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m a soldier. I’m completely capable of behaving with decorum and subtlety,” Danse said crossly. “Why would you think otherwise?” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine looked like he was going to respond to that, then apparently thought better of it. </p><p> </p><p>In return for the fairness and diplomacy with which he’d treated him the night before, Danse chose not to pry into the aborted response any further. “Why would he lie about having seen Paladin Carter?” </p><p> </p><p>“Why indeed?” A subtle frown slid into place on Valentine’s face. “That’s Old Man Stockton. Bigwig caravan tycoon. He owns half the caravan routes in the Commonwealth. The question is, does he lie about Nora, or does he lie about everybody?” </p><p> </p><p>The look Danse gave him apparently told him that he needed to elaborate. </p><p> </p><p>“Could be he doesn’t talk about any of his clients. Could be ‘no’ is his standard answer to that question,” Valentine explained. “But Nora’s not exactly a face in the crowd. Why lie about something any other merchant could immediately dispute? I’m thinking it was reflex.” </p><p> </p><p>“Reflex?”</p><p> </p><p>“He didn’t think it through first. He knew he had to lie about her, but didn’t have the time to make it good. He’s nervous. On edge about something.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse tried not to look too obvious as he watched Stockton sitting at his stall. He certainly did look nervous. He seemed to be scanning the area, looking at faces, as though he was expecting someone.</p><p> </p><p>“What about this fella with Nora? Her ‘pal.’” Valentine murmured. “Wonder who that is.” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t know?” That was concerning. “I was hoping you’d have a better idea than I do.” </p><p> </p><p>“Afraid not. Our dear Nora does make a lot of ‘pals,’ though.” He tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “Wish we had a better description of the guy. But what have we got so far?” </p><p> </p><p>“Plaid jacket. Scarf. Sunglasses,” Danse recited. “But a description of his clothing is completely useless for identification. Most people change their clothes on occasion.” </p><p> </p><p>“We know a lot more than that,” said Valentine. “He buys .308 shells. Owns his own gun. Capable of doing his own fighting. They’re here buying ammo often enough for Joe Merchant to remember them, and what caliber they prefer. They’re seeing a lot of action together. Either starting lots of fights, or traveling often enough to find them.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse lifted his eyebrows. That was quite an impressive amount of information to gather from a secondhand conversation. It all seemed logical, as well. For a synth, Valentine was adept at reading people. </p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t done yet, either. “I don’t think we’re talking about some random merc she hired, either. Those are a dime a dozen around here, but he called this guy her ‘pal.’ That means he must act like it. He’s openly friendly with her in public. Gregarious, maybe, or lots of close body language or contact.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse’s eyebrows came right back down in a vicious scowl. This time, he understood what it was for. </p><p> </p><p><em> Jealous, soldier? Of another man? Of a </em> real <em> man, being with her when you can’t? </em></p><p> </p><p>No. Preposterous. It wasn’t <em> jealousy </em>. It was reasonable suspicion. Nora’s “pal.” A man that neither Danse nor her close friend Valentine had ever heard of, suddenly by her side long enough that others take notice-- immediately before she goes missing without a trace. </p><p> </p><p>What if he was behind her disappearance? A spy for the Brotherhood, investigating why she’d been shirking her duties? Or worse, an agent for the Institute, somebody sent to make her disappear just like so many others had? </p><p> </p><p>“It may be nothing,” Valentine remarked, clearly on the opposite train of thought. “It’s smart to have another set of eyes on your back out here. Could just be someone she met. But the timing is awfully suspicious.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” He knew he sounded annoyed, and didn’t bother trying to hide it. “It is.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine was decent enough not to comment on that, either. “Meanwhile, on my end, I think Ms. Deb has been looking for somebody to vent to for a while. I heard all about these synth attacks. Seven reported in the past month, and there could have been more.”</p><p> </p><p>“If Paladin Carter has been coming and going frequently, it’s possible she could have been caught up in one.” </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe so. But nobody’s gone missing from the attacks, according to Bunker Hill. All the victims were injured or killed. They should have found her out there if she’d been involved.” He creased his lip in a frown around his cigarette. “Unless…” </p><p> </p><p>The very thought of it made Danse feel sick. But something else stuck out at him, and had since he’d first overheard it. “It all sounds rather… strange to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hm?” </p><p> </p><p>“Synths, attacking travelers,” said Danse. “I’m familiar with their behavior patterns from our reconnaissance work throughout the Commonwealth. The old models, gen 1s and 2s, are often documented sweeping through areas and stripping them of resources. They’re known to kill when people get in the way of those efforts. But that woman said the victims weren’t robbed. Nothing was taken from them.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Good point.” Valentine shook his head. “Why would the Institute send synths just to attack travelers?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s unlike them to repeatedly strike one area as well,” Danse pointed out. “They take what they were sent for and leave. Why continually attack around Bunker Hill?” </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe it is the area. They’re guarding something, and the travelers get too close,” said Valentine. “Or maybe they aren’t finding whatever it is they’re looking for.”</p><p> </p><p>The old synth stared into the distance, his expression blank, his glowing eyes moving subtly. Danse realized after a few seconds that he seemed to be deep in thought. It was a little unsettling, being unable to discern what was going on in that mechanical brain of his. </p><p> </p><p>At last, he clicked his eyes to Danse. “You’re a recon guy. What are the odds that this is all a big coincidence?” </p><p> </p><p>“In my professional opinion?” Danse replied. “Extremely low.” </p><p> </p><p>“Uh huh. And what do you say our odds are, heading out there and baiting ourselves a synth ambush?”</p><p> </p><p>“You need to specify. Odds of getting ambushed, or odds of winning?” </p><p> </p><p>“Winning.” </p><p> </p><p>“With this?” Danse thumped a fist against his power armor. “Pretty damn good.” </p><p> </p><p>“I thought you’d say that.” Valentine chuckled. “Stupid reckless, perhaps, but it’d give us some insight into just what the hell is going on around here. If they’re nice enough to refrain from attacking us, maybe we can dig up some clues.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t have any tactically better ideas.”</p><p> </p><p>“Me neither.” Valentine extinguished his cigarette. “So, it may not be a great plan, but it’s a plan. While we’re here, if you wanna stock up or take care of anything, may as well. We can head out whenever you’re ready.” </p><p> </p><p>Part of Danse wanted to go now. Head into the streets and get some synths coming for him. He’d be more than happy to smash them like super mutants, scatter their parts across the city, scrap every single one that stood between him and Nora. Punish them for ever being built, for reminding him that he was little better than they were. </p><p> </p><p>He nearly slipped back into the fog, ready for battle, when he felt a dull pain in his torso. He blinked. His stomach rumbled queasy. He remembered. </p><p> </p><p>“I need to eat.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The mechanics of eating a meal in power armor were something Danse was intimately familiar with. They were also something he was loath to ever put himself through again if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. As he was not crowded in a narrow trench with fifty other Knights, lifting his helmet enough to take sloppy bites out of a cold can of Cram while waiting for the Enclave troops to stumble into their ambush any time between any second and three hours from now, he decided that it was not, currently, absolutely necessary. </p><p> </p><p>He parked the X-01 suit beside the table and removed the fusion core for security, then settled in. The marketplace canteen was serving mirelurk steak today, one of his old favorites. With fresh purified water to wash it down, he felt much better quickly. A little more human, so to speak. </p><p> </p><p>Valentine sat at the table with him, using his newly-purchased screwdriver to do some adjustments on his skeletal metal hand. It was oddly fascinating to watch. Reminded Danse of similar moments he’d had in the field, needing to make some last-minute adjustments on his power armor without the space or time to get out of it. Anybody could wield a screwdriver, but doing so with your hands encased in a gauntlet was a skill unto itself.</p><p> </p><p>Doing it to your own body… well. He supposed it was no different than performing first aid on a human. </p><p> </p><p>“Problem?” he asked. </p><p> </p><p>Valentine glanced up to see what he was talking about. Then he shook his head. “Nah. Just gotta tighten the ol’ joints every once in a while. They get a little slippy sometimes.” </p><p> </p><p>“Grease and moisture make a terrible combination,” said Danse. “The air is still quite humid from the rain. The joints in my suit have been slightly looser than normal as well.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Exactly,” Valentine chuckled. “You just get to take yours off.” </p><p> </p><p>That was a blessing. He could always take off his power armor. Technically his body was a machine as well, though not quite as literally as Valentine’s. “Humor my curiosity, Valentine.” </p><p> </p><p>“About what?” </p><p> </p><p>“You seem to need a lot of maintenance. Who performs it?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yours truly, mostly,” he said. “I’m no mechanic, but you tend to pick up on the concepts when you’re living in them.” He finished his adjustments, flexing and testing the motion of his hand. Apparently satisfied, he tucked the screwdriver away. “There’s some junk in this old jalopy that’s way beyond me, intellectually or physically. But I’ve got a ‘doctor’ for the former, and Arturo in Diamond City can usually handle the latter for me.”</p><p> </p><p>He looked at Danse and cracked a smile. “Why? You know a guy?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse let out a very brief segment of a chuckle. “You wouldn’t want most of the mechanics I know getting their hands on you.” It would likely prove fatal for him.</p><p> </p><p>Valentine smirked, seeming to take it in the light spirit it was intended. “Damn. Well, I’m always looking for referrals, if you’ve got ‘em.”</p><p> </p><p>Taking a break had been a good idea. Without his programming nagging him to eat and drink, Danse felt calmer, more rational, less irritable. Bunker Hill had given them more questions than answers, but they had a plan of attack. Once they tracked down these strange synths, hopefully the next step would become clear. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you have a geiger counter?” </p><p> </p><p>“Mine’s in the shop, actually.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, is it now?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, sorry about that. They’re running pretty far behind.” </p><p> </p><p>Stockton was having a conversation with a man. Their voices were too quiet to overhear after that exchange, or perhaps Danse just stopped listening when he took in the details. A man. A plaid jacket. A scarf. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Danse?” </p><p> </p><p>He watched intently as Stockton and the man talked. Stockton was agitated, but the man’s body language was casual. At last he turned around, and Danse got a look at him from the front. A white man with a yellow bandana tied over black hair. His face was oddly nondescript, apart from the aviator sunglasses. He shoved a hand in his pocket and headed over to the arms dealer. </p><p> </p><p>“Danse?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse glowered at Valentine, who blinked with confusion in return. </p><p> </p><p>“The hell is that look for? Your eyes are bugging out.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s him,” Danse hissed. “That’s the man the merchant described.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine swiveled his head to look. “Are you sure?” </p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t, actually, until the arms dealer gestured in their direction, as though to indicate he had spoken to them. Plaid Jacket glanced towards them and nodded. After the transaction was through, he sauntered off in the other direction. </p><p> </p><p>“Looks like that’s our man.” Valentine smirked. “We oughta-” </p><p> </p><p>Danse was already on his feet, shoving the fusion core back into his power armor.</p><p> </p><p>"Whoa, hang on there,” Valentine protested. “Aren’t you jumping the gun a little?” </p><p> </p><p>“We need answers. That man has them.” Danse’s voice had slipped right back into commander mode. “And getting them from him will be a hell of a lot simpler than trying to extract them from a gang of synths.” </p><p> </p><p>“And we need power armor for this?” Valentine asked lamely. “You’re going to scare the hell out of him.” </p><p> </p><p> “He has no need to fear.” Danse stepped into the frame, and the armor clunked and thudded into place around his body. “Unless he refuses to answer my questions.” </p><p> </p><p>“There’s an analogy about a hammer and nails coming to mind…” </p><p> </p><p>“Follow him,” Danse ordered. “He’s getting away.” </p><p> </p><p>They circled outside the marketplace, heading towards one of the rear gates in time to see Plaid Jacket slip through. Valentine could move a little faster, so he rushed ahead to keep an eye on him. </p><p> </p><p>“Over there.” He pointed down the street as Danse emerged from the gate.</p><p> </p><p>“Is he running?” </p><p> </p><p>“Not yet. Bet that changes when he hears the ominous thud of power armor tailing him.” </p><p> </p><p>“It was this, or leave it unattended,” Danse shot back. “Go on ahead. I’ll keep you in sight.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine shook his head and muttered something, but didn’t protest, rushing off to keep on the man’s trail. </p><p> </p><p>It was a winding maze of streets and alleyways. Danse ran enough to keep up with Valentine ahead, who moved with the purpose and speed that suggested he still had sight of their quarry. </p><p> </p><p>The problem came when the turns started to get tighter. The corners started to double-back on each other. Danse lost sight of Valentine for a few frantic moments, until he spotted the glow of his eyes coming towards him up ahead. The detective took a left turn into the next alley. </p><p> </p><p>There was suddenly a flash of light. A shout. Danse felt a stone drop in the pit of his stomach. To hell with stealth. He rushed forward, unholstered his rifle, and ran into the alley. </p><p> </p><p>He spotted Valentine first, sprawled out on the ground, a shadowy figure looming over him. He tried to step forward, but an electrical jolt suddenly rocked through his power armor, shorting out the frame, seizing it still. </p><p> </p><p>Then he felt the sting in the side of his neck, and the world went black. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Raise your hand if you ALSO ollied out of the Brotherhood the second you could kiss Danse. There's no shame in it! You're among friends here. I want to get this "synthfucker" tag going strong. </p><p>As shitty as the BoS is to Danse, you gotta give the guy a little leeway. They were his family and support system for over a decade, and he can't be expected to come to terms with his identity AND deprogram himself overnight. Or like... hardly at all, as far as the game takes him! Hooray for fanfic! </p><p>Next chapter: Two days in and we're already getting interrogated? Let's hope they're friendly...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. You Rascal You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nick and Danse get "interrogated," meet some new "friends," and have a "really great time."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Another beautiful autumn night in Diamond City. Clear skies, cool breezes, and the slightest seasonal nip in the air. The stadium lights cast heavy shadows over crowded shops and houses, and made the Wall glow like the “great green jewel” of the city’s romantic nickname. High above, the bright belt of the Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon, stars scattered over every inch of inky black. </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes when Nick looked up there, he could forget where and when he was. He could remember a time long before he’d ever been assembled, when the world was whole. When the city of Boston was bustling and alive, millions of people, tall buildings and roads all lined with lights even brighter than the stars. He knew it all intimately, even though “he” had technically never been there or seen it. </p><p> </p><p>It was all so different now. Rubble and ruins. Literal and figurative skeletons of the city that had been, people scrounging to build something from them, civilization just starting to take shape from the wreckage. Even “he” was different. A different being, a different body, the same sharp mind and memories transplanted into plastic and steel instead of flesh and bone. </p><p> </p><p>The stars, though? They hadn’t changed at all. </p><p> </p><p>Nick sat in one of the deck chairs on the roof of the agency, still letting the events of the past few days sink in. They’d just returned from Goodneighbor with a big fat lead, the next step on a trail of clues that might very well lead to the Institute’s front door (or whatever the equivalent, when teleportation is involved.) He wondered how far he could follow it. How they’d react if he came stomping back in like century-old garbage, to find Nora’s boy and give them a swift kick in the teeth on behalf of the entire Commonwealth. Maybe, spitefully, with a side bonus of making them sorry they’d ever created him and thrown him away. </p><p> </p><p>The door creaked open. He looked over to see Nora with a canvas sack in hand. Think of the devil. She smiled a little nervously and motioned to the chair beside his. “You mind a little company?” </p><p> </p><p>He grinned. “From you, doll? Anytime.” </p><p> </p><p>He was probably pushing it with that “doll” business. Ms. Nora Carter was still his client, after all, first and foremost. But he liked to think theirs was no longer a strictly professional relationship. </p><p> </p><p>If it was strictly professional, she wouldn’t have asked him to come with her to confront her husband’s murderer. She wouldn’t have spent the night at the agency that night, hollow and sorrowful and in need of company. He wouldn’t freely accompany her on her various adventures across the Commonwealth, and she wouldn’t have introduced him to the Minutemen as “my good friend, Detective Nick Valentine.” </p><p> </p><p>Sure, “doll” was a little on the flirty side. But she’d call him “handsome” or “good-lookin’” from time to time. “Bright eyes,” when she was particularly sassy (he liked that one a lot.) He teased her, she teased right back, and she was assertive enough to tell him to knock it off if it bothered her. She hadn’t yet.</p><p> </p><p>“How are you feeling?” she asked. </p><p> </p><p>“I told you, Nora. I’m fine. No other ill effects.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re sure? Don’t you dare put on a brave face. Even something little, Nick.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing,” he assured her. “I don’t even remember the voice. It’s like Dr. Amari said, probably some mnemonic impressions working their way out of this rusty old processor. Just a little static interference from a dead bastard’s brain, that’s all.” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” She sighed, sitting down in the other chair. “I was really worried about you.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s real sweet of you. But don’t you fret about ol’ Nick. I knew the risks when I let her stick that thing in my head.” </p><p> </p><p>“Better than I would.” Nora set the bag on her lap and looked at him. “But seriously, Nick. I thanked you before, but I just… I still can’t believe how selfless you are.” </p><p> </p><p>“For what?” he scoffed. “Sitting in a chair for a few minutes?” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, please. You <em> know </em> it was dangerous. You had no idea what that implant would do to you, but you put yourself at risk. For <em> me </em>. For Shaun.”</p><p> </p><p>“A kidnapped kid is more important than this hunk of junk.” Nick gestured at himself. “I’d do it again, too, if it’d bring your little boy back to you safe and sound.” </p><p> </p><p>“I hope you know how special that is.” Nora met his eyes with a sincere smile. “And how rare it is. Ever since I woke up, this world, all of this has been… absolute hell. But people like you make me think there’s still hope. You, and Ellie, and Piper… There’s still goodness and kindness to be found out here, even at the darkest times. And I really want you to know how glad I am to have you as a friend.”</p><p> </p><p>For once, Nick found himself actually lost for words. He stumbled around a few different options, then gave a soft, sheepish chuckle. “I… ah… I don’t know what to say.” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to say anything.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Just keep on being you.” </p><p> </p><p>If he’d had a heart, it would be glowing. “Thank you, Nora. That really means a lot to me, coming from you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome.” She turned her attention to the bag, unfolding the top and reaching in. “Anyway… just to make things even sappier, I brought you something. A little thank you gift, to the best detective in the Commonwealth.” </p><p> </p><p>“Boy, I don’t know which is gonna kill me faster, the flattery or the suspense.” Nick laughed. “What is it?”</p><p> </p><p>She pulled out a bottle and two small glasses. “Beef ‘n’ bourbon.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh?” </p><p> </p><p>“Beef ‘n’ bourbon. It’s so corny, but there’s a story behind it.” Nora set the bottle of bourbon on the table between them, then reached back in for a plastic plate with a small greasy bundle wrapped in paper. </p><p> </p><p>“When my husband and I were first dating, I invited him over for dinner one night, and I really wanted to impress him. A man’s heart through his stomach and all that. I asked Nate what his favorite meal was, and he said ‘beef ‘n’ bourbon.’ </p><p> </p><p>‘Any vegetables? Or sides?’”</p><p> </p><p>She mimicked a deeper voice. “‘No, don’t go to any trouble on my account. Just homemade beef ‘n’ bourbon is fine with me.’” </p><p> </p><p>Nora unwrapped the paper to reveal a brahmin steak, seared to perfection, still steaming hot. “So when he came over, I served him a rare steak the size of his head and a bottle of bourbon. The most expensive of each I could afford.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good grief. Did he propose right then?” </p><p> </p><p>“Just about,” she chuckled. “He looked absolutely floored. So impressed he couldn’t say a word. He just cut the steak up and ate the whole thing, bite by bite.</p><p> </p><p>“So I was feeling pretty damn proud of myself. We opened up the bourbon and shared it. We’re making out on the couch, halfway through the bottle, three sheets to the wind, and he finally leans in to whisper in my ear. I’d misheard him on the phone.” </p><p> </p><p>“Uh oh.” </p><p> </p><p>“His favorite meal was beef <em> bourguignon </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wow. That’s, uh…. a pretty classy mistake to make, though.” </p><p> </p><p>“No kidding. If anything, I just impressed him even more with my appreciation for rare meat and booze. He said that was when he knew I was a keeper.” Nora laughed. “And after that, it became our little joke. Special occasion? In-laws dropping in unexpectedly? Catering a funeral? Serve up beef ‘n’ bourbon.” </p><p> </p><p>“So where do I rank on that list? Above the funeral, I hope.” </p><p> </p><p>“Special occasion, for sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick smiled. “I’m honored. Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re very welcome.” She held out the plate to hand it to him. “I picked up the bourbon from Vadim, and Takahashi let me borrow his grill… I think. He said the same thing he usually does. But I thought you might…” </p><p> </p><p>Nora suddenly drifted off. She looked from the steak on the plate up to Nick, then back. Slowly, the pieces clicked into place. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh God,” she muttered. She set the plate down on the table. “I didn’t even think…”</p><p> </p><p>Nick put together the concern pretty quickly. “Er…” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t tell me. Do you actually…” </p><p> </p><p>“Technically, no…” </p><p> </p><p>“Holy shit. Nick, I forgot!” She groaned and covered her face. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, now.” He set his hand on her shoulder. “Just because I don’t <em> need </em> to eat doesn’t mean I don’t partake every now and then.” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t say that just to make me feel better!” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not,” he insisted. “You think I smoke because it looks neat?” </p><p> </p><p>“Frankly? Yes.” </p><p> </p><p>“I mean-” Nick chuckled. “Sure, but I can taste just as well as the next guy. And I’m definitely not one to say no to a good stiff drink.” </p><p> </p><p>Nora peeked through her fingers at him. Her face was redder than a ripe tato.  “<em> Promise </em> you’re not just saying that?” </p><p> </p><p>“Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.” He raised his hand in a solemn vow. “So tell you what. I’ll open this bottle, you cut up that steak, and we’ll split ‘em. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on your own special occasion dinner.” </p><p> </p><p>He’d let her have the majority of the steak, for obvious reasons, but did take a morsel to chew on a while. His taste receptors couldn’t perfectly transmit the flavor, but where they were lacking, his memories picked up the slack. </p><p> </p><p>Mr. Nate Carter certainly knew a keeper when he found one. She could cook a damn good steak. </p><p> </p><p>Nick insisted they cap the bourbon again when they’d had half the bottle. He felt nothing, of course, but Nora was four shots in and clearly starting to fade. Relaxed, mostly limp in her chair, staring up at the sky and talking a lot of nonsense. No judgment from him. If anybody in the Commonwealth had earned the right to get plastered, it was her. </p><p> </p><p>“Nick…” she mumbled. “I got a question.” </p><p> </p><p>“Shoot.” </p><p> </p><p>“When you do eat…” She turned to look at him, a drunken squint on her face. “Where does it go?” </p><p> </p><p>Nick performed the equivalent of raising an eyebrow. “You really want me to answer that?” </p><p> </p><p>“Hell yes I do.” </p><p> </p><p>He thought about it a moment, then chuckled as he pulled out a cigarette. “Sorry, doll. Some things about me are gonna remain a mystery.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Like someone flipped a circuit breaker, Nick’s consciousness came back online with a jolt. </p><p> </p><p>For a moment, he couldn’t clearly parse what happened. It wasn’t easy for an early-gen synth like him to get knocked out (most recently, it was a real mean little wannabe-moll with a baseball bat.) But he wasn’t injured, hadn’t been battered. It must have been some kind of extended pulse, interrupting his inner workings-- somebody knew what they were doing.</p><p> </p><p>His head was still buzzing as his processor finished rebooting, his body recalibrating. His various sensors reactivated one by one. </p><p> </p><p>He was sitting upright. Soft pads. Plastic arms. A desk chair? His wrists and ankles were bound down with leather straps. It was quiet. Insulated, a room with no windows. The air smelled like dust and electricity. Power tools. Metal. His detection system notified him of movement across the room. Footsteps. At least two people present. </p><p> </p><p>Oh yeah, and he couldn’t see a goddamn thing. </p><p> </p><p>His optics had been deactivated. Whether they were removed or simply disconnected, he couldn’t tell, but either way it quickly spoiled any chance of a diplomatic introduction.</p><p> </p><p>“What the <em> hell </em>is going on?” he burst out. </p><p> </p><p>Across the room, a woman spoke. “There it goes. Just like I said, G, no harm done.” </p><p> </p><p>A second woman sighed heavily. “God, I hate watching that shit.” </p><p> </p><p>“What did you do to me?” Nick shouted. “Who are you?” </p><p> </p><p>He took the sudden silence as a startled pause. Then the first woman spoke. “Easy, there. No harm done. I had to take a little peek inside your head to make sure you weren’t tampered with.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re the only one who’s done any ‘tampering’ on me,” he said icily. “My damn eyes are gone!” </p><p> </p><p>“No they’re not,” The woman’s footsteps came closer. “I just left your optic sensors disconnected. It’s one little plug. I’ll fix it before we close you up. Once you’re outside and well away from here.” </p><p> </p><p>Oh, so his <em> head </em> was open? Meaning she’d deactivated his pain sensors and structural integrity matrix, too. <em> Fantastic </em>.</p><p> </p><p> “Regular expert, aren’t you?” he grumbled. “You with the Institute? Or are you some kind of freak who dissects synths for kicks?” </p><p> </p><p>“I know what I’m doing. Let’s leave it at that for now,” said the woman. “Jeez, can’t say I’ve ever been yelled at by a gen-2…” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, I ain’t your everyday gen-2.” Nick sneered. “Where’s Danse?” </p><p> </p><p>“Power Armor?” asked G. “He’s right here. Safe. Sleepyhead just woke up from a nap.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t believe you. Prove it.” </p><p> </p><p>G took a step. There was a thump, a shoe bumping a body.  “Hey. Say hi.” </p><p> </p><p>“If you people think you’re going to get anywhere by torturing me--” Danse’s voice came from somewhere near the floor. It was slurred and a little slow, as though he’d been drugged. “You’re about to be goddamned disappointed.” </p><p> </p><p>“Only if you give me a reason, big boy,” said G. </p><p> </p><p>Well, that was at least a slight relief. With what Nick currently knew about these people, he’d feared they may have done a little tampering in Danse’s skull too. A far less survivable prospect for him. </p><p> </p><p>He steeled his voice, confident and calm. “What do you want with us?” </p><p> </p><p>“Answers,” said G. “That’s all.” </p><p> </p><p>“Forgive me if I have a hard time believing that. I can answer questions without you knocking us out and cracking my head open.” </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t <em> crack </em>anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“We had our reasons. And it’s better you stay in the dark, too,” said G. “You’ll thank us for making sure you know nothing about us.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick took a moment to gather what he knew about the situation so far. A group of people with the manpower to knock out and transport them to an unknown location. A mechanic familiar with synths. Extreme secrecy. There were only two groups in the Commonwealth that could fit those criteria. And given that he and Danse were seemingly unharmed in a dusty, trashed room and not mindwiped in a creepy laboratory, it probably wasn’t the Institute. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you with the Railroad?” </p><p> </p><p>Silence. </p><p> </p><p><em> Bingo </em>. </p><p> </p><p>“We’ve got no fight with you,” said G, after a moment. “We’re only trying to protect what’s ours.” </p><p> </p><p>“Was it strictly necessary to open up my skull for that?” Nick asked lamely. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re asking the questions, Mister Valentine,” said G. “But I’ll tell you what. Answer me  truthfully, prove we can trust you, and I’ll have Ratchet turn your eyes back on. As a show of good faith.” </p><p> </p><p>She didn’t want information. She wanted him to answer “truthfully.” And how were they going to know if he didn’t? Unless, of course, they had all the answers. They knew his name. There was no telling what else they already knew.</p><p> </p><p>So this wasn’t an interrogation. Not really. It was a test to see if he’d lie to them. </p><p> </p><p>This situation was already too close to out of control, and he didn’t have any great alternate options. Danse was out of commission, and Nick was strapped down with his head popped open. They were both completely at the mercy of their captors, and things could get real nasty real fast if the Railroad decided they weren’t on their side.</p><p> </p><p>“All right,” said Nick. “Lay it on me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Who are you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Like you said, Nick Valentine. The private detective from Diamond City.” </p><p> </p><p>“Uh huh. What were you doing in Bunker Hill?” </p><p> </p><p>“Looking for a missing person.” </p><p> </p><p>“And why were you following my friend?” </p><p> </p><p>“Because we know he’s seen her. We wanted to ask him some questions.” </p><p> </p><p>There was a long pause. Nick heard some subtle movement from behind. Was there a third person present? </p><p> </p><p>“All right. Ratchet, fix him up,” said G. </p><p> </p><p>Someone shuffled behind him. “Please be still, Mister Valentine. No sudden movements.” </p><p> </p><p>“Now it’s your turn, big boy. Who are you?” </p><p> </p><p>From the floor, Danse growled. “I’m not going to play your games.” He grunted with exertion, and a chain jingled as he shifted. “You already know exactly who we are.” </p><p> </p><p>Same conclusion. Opposite reaction. God damn it, Danse. Nick opened his mouth to say something to that effect, but he was interrupted by the unpleasant sensation of tools stuck into his head. The screwdriver jammed the signals, shorting out his vocal system.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t need to tell me too much, big guy. The power armor and the jumpsuit gave it away. You’ve got Brotherhood written all over you.”</p><p> </p><p> A few footsteps, and G’s tone chilled a hundred degrees. “Last time I tangled with you guys, you got the drop on a delivery. Two of you big armored bastards gunned down an agent and three synths. All lined up in a row and shot dead, one by one. Felt real good to blow that vertibird out of the sky afterward. I hope they landed straight in Hell.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick didn’t need his eyes working to imagine the look on Danse’s face. Kind of glad he couldn’t see it, actually. </p><p> </p><p>“Every one of you bootlickers left alive is one more murdering shithead I’ll have to kill later. Give me one good reason not to put a slug between your eyes, asshole.” </p><p> </p><p>Needling him. She wanted a reaction. She wanted an excuse to kill him, and any second now Danse would blow up and give her one. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, he was silent. Stoically holding onto his pride. Nick would call it admirable if it wasn’t about to get him stoically, pridefully shot. </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t think so,” G muttered. “It’s just as well. Wouldn’t want you running off to tattle to your ‘brothers.’” </p><p> </p><p>Nick moved his lips again, but still couldn’t make his voice work. Was she seriously going to kill him in cold blood? And was he going to sit there and let her? <em> God damn it, Danse, say something!  </em></p><p> </p><p>He waited for the gunshot. It didn’t come. </p><p> </p><p>But Danse’s tone was no less coldblooded. “To answer your question? My name is Danse. No longer of the Brotherhood of Steel.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” </p><p> </p><p>“Exile.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, too bad. What’d you do? Didn’t kill enough synths?”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> am </em>a synth.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick jolted. All of the signals in his brain resumed full functionality. His optics flickered back to life, and his eyes worked again. </p><p> </p><p>As he’d guessed, they were in an enclosed brick room, dusty and old, illuminated by a few work lights. He was strapped to a desk chair. Danse was on the floor in front of him, stripped down to his jumpsuit, blindfolded, and handcuffed to a radiator. His teeth grit with fury, his face viciously red. </p><p> </p><p>Standing over him was a young woman in an armored jacket, with brown skin and striking white hair buzzed with an undercut. She wasn’t holding a gun, nor wearing the holster for one. She turned away from Danse and looked somewhere behind Nick’s chair, raising an eyebrow. </p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, Glory,” said a man’s voice. “His questions were <em> way </em>harder.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, not sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, he still passed with flying colors. A deal’s a deal.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick’s cranial plates clicked back into place and a twist of a screw fastened them down. His structural integrity matrix finally stopped screaming about the proverbial door being ajar. </p><p> </p><p>“There we are.” A woman of Asian descent with red-dyed hair in a greasy bandana stepped out from behind the chair. She wore gloves and magnifying glasses, and still had some kind of multitool in hand. “Good as new, Mister Valentine.” </p><p> </p><p>Glory plucked off Danse’s blindfold and tossed it aside. He sat up glowering at her, fists clenched in the handcuffs. The soldier still looked groggy and ill, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. Danse briefly locked eyes with Nick, then caught sight of the man behind his chair and bristled. </p><p> </p><p>“You!” He snarled. “Who the hell are you?” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, hey there! You must be Paladin Danse. Is, uh… Danse your last name?” </p><p> </p><p>Predictably, the crack did not disarm Danse’s anger whatsoever. He appeared to have used up all his “stoic pride” for the day. “You slimy, underhanded scoundrel! Explain yourself this instant!” </p><p> </p><p>The man who stepped out from behind Nick’s chair still wore his plaid jacket and aviators, but he’d taken off the bandana-- and his hair. His head was shiny and bald, and he wore a big friendly smile. </p><p> </p><p>“Call me Deacon,” he said cheerfully. “Mister Danse, Mister Valentine, pleasure to finally meet you guys. I’ve heard loads of neat stories.” </p><p> </p><p>“You smug son of a bitch!” Danse roared. “Release us immediately! Where is Nora?” </p><p> </p><p>Deacon raised his hands in a mollifying gesture. “Okay, I get it. This was a really bad way to get introduced…” </p><p> </p><p>“You just figure that out?” muttered Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, in retrospect… probably like, bottom three ‘getting to know you’ activities I’ve ever heard of.” Oh, great. All this, and he was <em> funny </em>, too. “I’m sorry about all the cloak and dagger stuff. But believe me, we come in peace.” </p><p> </p><p>“You fanatical reprobates captured us, stole our equipment, violated Mister Valentine, and extorted information under threat of death!” Danse snarled. “I ought to snap your neck, you unscrupulous bastard!” </p><p> </p><p>Deacon winced. “I wasn’t <em> really </em>gonna let her shoot you, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Glory shrugged. “I don’t even have my real gun on me.”</p><p> </p><p>“And anyway, don’t blame the Railroad for all this. It was my call,” said Deacon. “We’re isolated out here, and I’m the one making the decisions. We’ve been having a real shit time of things lately, and we had to make sure you weren’t in on it.” </p><p> </p><p>“If you’ve really heard anything about us, you ought to know we’re no fans of the Institute,” said Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“The fun thing about the Institute, my friend? They have ways of making you a ‘fan.’ Willing, or not.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I can’t fault that logic. But regardless, we’re not a danger to you folks.” Nick struggled in his bonds. “We don’t have any quarrel with the Railroad. The only reason we’re here is Nora.”</p><p> </p><p>Deacon’s smile straightened out, twisting into a grim frown. Ratchet shook her head. Glory looked away. </p><p> </p><p>If Nick had blood, it would have run cold. “Is she all right?”</p><p> </p><p>Deacon sighed heavily and brought a hand to the bridge of his nose. “We… don’t know.” </p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean, you don't know?” Danse snapped. “You were with her, weren’t you? You were supposed to protect her!” </p><p> </p><p> “Listen,” said Deacon. “I know you have zero reason to trust us at the moment. But believe me when I say we’re on the same side, as far as our mutual friend goes. We want to find her as much as you do, and we think we’ve found a way. So if you promise not to get cranky and violent, we’ll let you out and we can talk about this like grown-ups.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick only felt a little guilty that his gaze turned to Danse. So did Deacon’s. And Ratchet’s. And Glory’s. </p><p> </p><p>Danse looked instantly, immediately offended. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll stay my hand, unless it becomes necessary to defend myself.” </p><p> </p><p>“Try anything funny, and I’ll splatter you all over the wall,” said Glory. </p><p> </p><p>“Then it appears we’re at a truce,” Danse sneered. “Please release us.” </p><p> </p><p>Ratchet undid the straps on Nick’s chair, and handed him back his fedora after he dusted himself off. Deacon unlocked Danse’s handcuffs, and offered him a hand up off the floor. </p><p> </p><p>Danse refused. Initially. When he tried to stand on his own, he staggered and ended up catching himself on the radiator. There was an awkward moment of mutual hovering as Deacon looked unsure if he should hoist Danse up, and Danse looked unsure if he should punch Deacon in the stomach. </p><p> </p><p>Nick slipped between them, and Danse readily accepted his aid instead. </p><p> </p><p>Deacon looked greatly relieved. “C’mon,” he said, gesturing to the door. “Lemme show you guys something.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The presence of a boarded-up window well and a staircase revealed that they were underground, in some kind of basement or cellar. A ratty olive-green couch had a sleeping bag draped over it, with two more laid out across the floor. What had once been a handsome billiard table had been transformed into a makeshift workshop, a handbag full of mechanical tools and gadgets spilled out across this surface. </p><p> </p><p>Also spilled across the surface were the pieces of a gen-2 synth. An arm and a leg were detached, the plastic skin was riddled with bullet holes, and cranial casing had been opened up and taken apart piece by piece.The eerily familiar face stared blankly ahead, dead-eyed and deactivated. </p><p> </p><p>Lord, it was bad enough Nick had to see that face in the mirror every day. Looking at his “own” ugly mug, his “own” parts and pieces strewn all over was enough to make him sick. Proverbially speaking. </p><p> </p><p>Nick helped Danse to the couch. The ex-Paladin had a seat on the arm, supporting himself on the back. “Where are our weapons?” he asked gruffly. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got them,” said Glory. “You can have ‘em back when you leave.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse looked around the room. His expression slowly darkened. “And where the hell is my power armor?” </p><p> </p><p>“We couldn’t exactly drag you in it,” said Deacon, giving Danse a friendly slap on the shoulder as he moved by. “Had to pull you out. And bringing it here would have been too noisy. I entrusted it to one of our other operatives.” </p><p> </p><p>“‘Entrusted?’” Danse echoed, in a dead sort of voice. </p><p> </p><p>“He wore it with him to our nearest safehouse.” Deacon wisely accompanied this news with a big step out of arm’s reach. </p><p> </p><p>“Which is where?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry. Can’t say. But I promise, we’ll give it back to you first chance we get.” </p><p> </p><p>If looks could kill, Danse would have just vaporized Deacon into a smoking pile of nuclear dust. </p><p> </p><p>“Anyway, let’s get down to business.” Deacon walked around to the other side of the billiard table. “Maybe you heard a rumor at Bunker Hill about some trouble in the neighborhood. Old gen synths taking out traders.” </p><p> </p><p>“We heard,” said Nick. “And thought it was pretty damn unusual. Not their typical M.O.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nope. The little robo-bastards cause trouble on the surface all the time, when the Institute sends them on a fetch quest. But they’re usually after something specific, not killing people and bailing. The last thing we want is Institute attention on the roads, so we set up this little outpost hoping to catch a few of these synths in the act. See if we can figure out what they’re after.” </p><p> </p><p>“And what are they after?” asked Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“Not ‘what,’” said Deacon. “‘Who.’ Suffice it to say, the Railroad’s pretty active in these parts.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse let out an indignant huff. </p><p> </p><p>“We lose one shipment, that’s a tragedy. Two is shitty luck. Three? A pattern.” Deacon folded his arms. “Somebody’s onto us. They know our packages often get routed around Bunker Hill. Send the synths to attack anybody leaving, and you’ll intercept one eventually. We stopped all of our operations in the area after the third package went down, but the attacks have barely slowed.” </p><p> </p><p>“So the Institute is trying to ambush runaway synths,” Nick muttered. “And doing a damn clumsy job of it. They don’t care who else gets killed in the crossfire.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s what we thought too,” said Ratchet. “Until we managed to snag some of the perpetrators.” </p><p> </p><p>“It was tough to even find these guys. They come out of nowhere, hit fast, and run. But we managed to take a few out, and lo and behold…” Deacon gestured to Ratchet theatrically. </p><p> </p><p>“We found this in the synth’s head.” She picked up a part from the table and handed it to Nick.</p><p> </p><p>It was a small interface chip with an attached signal receiver. It looked similar to the hardware that Nick had hammered into his brain, with one major difference: this one looked like it had been hastily assembled in somebody’s garage. The soldering was uneven, the wiring recycled, the parts a little rusty and dinged-up. The hallmark of a wasteland DIY job. </p><p> </p><p>“Looks pretty sloppy for Institute handiwork,” he remarked. </p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely,” said Ratchet. “Institute hardware is immaculate. This was obviously done on the surface. The synths we destroyed near Bunker Hill each had parts removed, and swapped with one of these. They’re designed to override the programming and replace it with whatever comes in on the receiver.” </p><p> </p><p>“So somebody is <em> hijacking </em>synths?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yep,” said Deacon. “Some very naughty person out there is picking up synths, doing a little brain surgery, then using them to run their errands.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick scoffed. “I can’t tell if that’s the smartest, or the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. I doubt the Institute’s gonna take kindly to getting their ‘property’ stolen.” </p><p> </p><p>“They get <em> real </em>pissy when we do it,” said Glory. She was leaning against the wall, still keeping an eye on Danse.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s mostly been gen-1s, but we’ve found a few gen-2s with these receivers as well,” said Ratchet. “That’s why we opened you up, Mister Valentine. We had to make sure you weren’t previously captured and tampered with.” </p><p> </p><p>Was it even possible for his brain to hurt? Nick set the receiver on the table and reflexively rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah. That’s… Thanks, I guess.” </p><p> </p><p>“Just lookin’ out for you, Nick,” said Deacon. “Whatever you do, don’t let anybody stick anything strange in your head, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Noted.” Now he felt a shudder down his spine. Or imagined one, at least. “So who the hell would want to do all this?” </p><p> </p><p>“Whoever it is, they’re tech-savvy enough to wire these old synths, and smart enough to keep masking their signals. We’ve caught five of these guys, and they were all catching different bands bouncing off different relay towers,” said Ratchet. “They know full and well that the Institute would pay them a visit if they didn’t.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse had been quiet a while, staring back and forth from the receiver to the disassembled synth on the table. “That’s a tremendous risk to take, and a lot of trouble to go to for a very specific target. Who has that much of a vendetta against the Railroad?” </p><p> </p><p>“Can’t think of anyone, Brother?” asked Glory sarcastically. </p><p> </p><p>He shot her an irritated glare. “Say what you will, but the Brotherhood of Steel does not target the innocent. They would never launch indiscriminate attacks on civilians, even if there <em> was </em>a good chance they’d find enemies in the process. Whoever this person is, they have no regard for human lives.” </p><p> </p><p>“We did consider the Brotherhood as one possible culprit,” said Ratchet. “They’d have the technical know-how and the materials.” </p><p> </p><p>“They’d have to be <em> former </em>Brotherhood,” said Danse vehemently. “No Brotherhood CO would ever authorize the utilization of synths, for any reason. Especially not in such a careless and destructive manner.” </p><p> </p><p>Ratchet frowned. “Are you sure?” </p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely positive.” </p><p> </p><p>She sighed. “Guess we can take your word for it.” </p><p> </p><p>Deacon thumbed his chin thoughtfully. “Anyway, we can put together a few more things. Whoever’s doing this, they’re capable enough to get their hands on intact synths, or mechanically inclined enough to put them back together. And based on the three run-ins we’ve had, there’s… a motive, we think we’ve guessed.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” said Nick. </p><p> </p><p>Deacon rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah. So.. those three lost shipments I mentioned? All three packages went missing afterwards. No sign of them anywhere at the attack site. So we assume they were taken.” </p><p> </p><p>“And by ‘packages…’” Nick said carefully. “You mean escaped gen-3 synths.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Deacon looked away. “We think they’ve been kidnapped.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick stared at the receiver chip on the table. At the pile of synth parts, carefully dismantled from inside its head. Somebody interested in synths, somebody technically savvy enough to take them apart and add their own pieces.</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus. You don’t think this person’s doing anything with…” </p><p> </p><p>“We sure goddamn hope not,” said Deacon. </p><p> </p><p>Three Railroad “shipments,” waylaid by hijacked synths. Humans killed, gen-3s gone without a trace. Somewhere out there in the Commonwealth, somebody was building themselves a collection of stolen synths. But why? </p><p> </p><p>Danse was staring at the disassembled synth too, his lips pressed together grimly. He looked up, his brow crinkled with disdain and confusion. “What does any of this have to do with Nora?”</p><p> </p><p>“The third shipment?” said Deacon. “She was with it.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?” Danse’s jaw dropped. His eyes went wide. “Why?” </p><p> </p><p>“Why? Buddy, same reason she’s been hanging out with me. She’s a Railroad agent.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick merely nodded. He’d suspected it the minute they unmasked Deacon and his two companions. The way Nora got into other people’s business, he’d have been surprised if she <em> didn’t </em> have any connection to the mysterious Railroad. </p><p> </p><p>But apparently, Danse hadn’t quite put the pieces together yet. His eyes narrowed and he sucked in a breath through his teeth, thinly holding back dismay. His face started to turn an angry shade of red. </p><p> </p><p>Time to change this line of questioning before things got unpleasant. “You said you didn’t know if Nora was safe or not,” Nick said quickly. “You didn’t find her with the third shipment?” </p><p> </p><p>“No, thank God,” said Deacon. “We’d already lost two. So for that one we stepped up security, bigtime. One package, a caretaker, Nora, and a heavy to follow at a safe distance in case something went wrong. And… shit went wrong.”</p><p> </p><p>He paced along the edge of the billiard table. “We lost the heavy, but our caretaker managed to take cover and survived. He made it back to a safehouse two days later, and he was able to tell us-- Nora and R6-48 were taken by the synths. Alive.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Nick Valentine was blessed, and cursed, with the mind of a human being. A long-dead man whose brainscans had been slapped into a synth body, and whose memories allowed him insight into things a pure machine would never understand. </p><p> </p><p>His mechanical body was not wired to “feel” precisely the same as a human did, but he knew what it was like, and so he had the unnerving privilege of imagining he could do so. This allowed him to “experience” reactions that were physically impossible for him. Things like hunger, thirst, exhaustion. Emotions, and the physiological responses thereof. </p><p> </p><p>It was the only way he could explain the way his entire consciousness went into shock for a moment. The way his sensors all seemed to go fuzzy at once. He could hear Deacon’s voice and see the synth on the table, but none of it registered between his racing, panicked thoughts. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Nora. Kidnapped with the synths. She’s alive. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Was alive. Two weeks ago.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Why would they take her?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What does a psycho playing around with synths want with a human woman?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What are they gonna do to her? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> They could have killed her first thing, taken her brain, tried to make her into some Frankenstein… </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Nick?” </p><p> </p><p>He came out of the haze as quickly as he’d fallen into it. All sensors back on line, perfectly sharp. They always had been. He was a machine. Machines didn’t go into shock. They didn’t let panic, fear, and dread reduce their functionality. </p><p> </p><p>“Nick?” Deacon said again. “Did you hear what I said?” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” he answered honestly. “Sorry. What was that?” </p><p> </p><p>“Ratchet’s only a little ways off from putting Humpty Dumpty here back together again,” said Deacon. </p><p> </p><p>The mechanic was carefully fiddling with the synth parts on the table. “This is the first fully intact receiver we’ve recovered,” she explained. “I’m going to install it on a working synth, and we’re crossing our fingers that it hears from the source.” </p><p> </p><p>“Then all we have to do is follow it, and we’re hot on the trail of our culprit.” Deacon clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “We’re gonna find who the hell is doing all this, and we’re gonna get her back.”</p><p> </p><p>Given his experiences with Deacon so far, Nick got the impression he was largely full of it. But dear Lord, did he want to believe him on that one. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Nora. Jesus, doll, please be all right.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He turned to look at Danse, to suggest that they follow after the receiver synth as well, but he had another of those “feeling but not” moments when he saw the man’s face. </p><p> </p><p>Danse wasn’t just angry. He was absolutely enraged, kept thinly, carefully concealed behind the sheerest layer of military discipline. His fists were clenched, his breath was heavy, and his eyes were locked in a deathglare with the disassembled synth on the table. </p><p> </p><p>“Danse?” Nick said carefully. </p><p> </p><p>Danse stood up, still a little unsteady, but radiating such fury that nobody dared offer him help. “Please,” he said, in a tone cold as stone. “Excuse me.” </p><p> </p><p>He stepped past Nick and headed for the stairs. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey hey hey-- you can’t go outside,” Deacon called after him. “This isn’t a safehouse. If we catch Institute attention here, we’re all boned.” </p><p> </p><p>With one more vicious glare over his shoulder, Danse closed the door. It was a strange motion that looked for all the world like a slam, but only sounded like a near-silent click. </p><p> </p><p>“Man, what a peach,” said Deacon. “No wonder Nora likes him. He seems <em> fun </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>Glory moved to follow up the stairs, but Nick held up a hand to stop her. “Give him a bit. Nothing good’ll come from getting in his face.” </p><p> </p><p>She threw Nick a suspicious look. “You trust him not to give us away?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” Nick was far more certain of that answer now than he would have been a day ago. For all Danse looked and came off like a brute, he’d proven neither impulsive, nor stupid. “He’ll mind his manners.” </p><p> </p><p>“And he really is a synth?” She folded her arms. </p><p> </p><p>“You remember all that Brotherhood scuttlebutt a while back?” asked Deacon. “That was him.”</p><p> </p><p>Glory made a soft “huh” noise, then relaxed her posture back against the wall. </p><p> </p><p>Nick felt a slight swell of indignance. That “scuttlebutt” had ruined and nearly cost a man his life. This felt like high school-level petty gossip about it. He was a little disappointed to think how Deacon even knew. “Did Nora tell you about it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nope. Not at all. She’s not the loose-lipped type.” Deacon settled down on the couch. “But she didn’t have to tell me anything about you guys. I work intel. I’m that fun nosy friend you can’t keep out of your business.” </p><p> </p><p>Well. Good. Deacon hadn’t made the best first impression, but Nick was inclined to believe him there. He could more easily see Deacon prying and spying than he could Nora spilling her friend’s personal struggles to him. </p><p> </p><p>Deacon was a slick one, and certainly knew more than his casual, affable demeanor let on. But he did seem genuinely concerned about Nora and remorseful for the Railroad’s involvement in her abduction. He’d taken a big risk even telling them what he knew, placing a huge amount of trust in Nick and Danse based solely on their friendship with Nora. <em> Especially </em>Danse. </p><p> </p><p>For the time being, it was best to return the favor and trust him. Keep an eye on him, but trust him. </p><p> </p><p>Ratchet climbed up onto the billiard table to lean over the synth. She made some kind of adjustment and with a flash, the piercing yellow eyes lit up. Its head fell to the side. The pupils contracted, then dilated. Was it… staring at Nick? </p><p> </p><p>“Shouldn’t be too long, Deacon,” said Ratchet. “Another couple of hours, and it’ll be functional enough to move.” Whatever adjustment she did next caused the synth’s arm to jerk, and an unpleasant digital chirp to erupt from its vocalizer. </p><p> </p><p>“You just keep doing your thing, Ratch,” said Deacon. “In the meantime, you might as well get comfortable, Mister Valentine. You’re our special guest. Can I get you anything? Nuka-Cola? Tube of potato crisps? Filet mignon?” </p><p> </p><p>Nick glanced around at the cramped basement. The tight quarters. The threat hanging over their heads. The door Danse had stormed out of. Deacon’s swaggery grin. The synth creepily staring at him from the billiard table, now emitting a constant high-pitched beep. </p><p> </p><p>“You got anything alcoholic?” </p><p> </p><p>Deacon raised an eyebrow. “Does that even work on you?” </p><p> </p><p>“God, I hope so.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Less exposition in future chapters, I promise. I don't have a whole lot to say this time, but I wanted to share that I just completed my first go at the the fantastic Nick Valentine Romance mod (by shadowslasher410, BetteCorvega, SigridStorrada, and kiddo95 over at Nexus Mods) and it is just... stunning how *little* the dialogue has to change for you to kiss that flirtatious metal bastard. </p><p>We're not getting into full love-triangle territory here, kids, but I fully plan on acknowledging it, with the fresh scent of pine. Pining. Insert Pine-Sol joke.  </p><p>Next chapter: Danse and Glory have a Talk, and the Railroad's operations go about as smoothly as they usually do.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Ring Of Fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Danse and Glory talk it out, a typically disastrous Railroad op, and lessons in synth "maintenance."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Claustrophobia was one of the most oddly common reasons that people washed out of the Brotherhood of Steel.</p><p> </p><p>Plenty of recruits, especially those taken from the wasteland, couldn’t stand the discipline and the rigor. Others couldn’t handle the bloodshed, and if they didn’t have the clout to swing a cushy position off the front lines they’d often quietly exit. But in all his squads over the years, Danse had seen peers and subordinates both who couldn’t handle tight spaces. The interior of their power armor. Trenches and tunnels on the battlefield. Vertibirds. The Prydwen. </p><p> </p><p>Danse had never been claustrophobic. He had vivid memories of being a small child, crawling through ruins and wreckage and collapsed buildings in search of salvage that would feed him the next day. He’d felt safe inside the rusty cabins and passageways of Rivet City. The barracks in the Citadel were an easy transition, and The Prydwen was the first place he thought of as “home” now. </p><p> </p><p>Half or more of those memories were probably fake, but the point was, he couldn’t remember ever feeling suffocated by four walls. </p><p> </p><p>Until tonight. If he didn’t get the hell out of this basement, he was going to lose his goddamn mind. </p><p> </p><p>Unfortunately, keeping company with the Railroad meant they were currently in mortal danger. As Deacon mentioned, this was only a temporary holdout. Going outside before they were ready to vacate might alert the Institute to their presence-- a dire prospect, when roughly half of their number consisted of escaped Institute property. </p><p> </p><p>That meant that no matter how desperately Danse wanted to storm outside, get some air, cool his head, he couldn’t. Instead, he climbed the stairs until there were no more to climb.</p><p> </p><p>The building was four stories tall, the top floor offering a modest view of the surrounding streets. Danse climbed onto an intact desk next to a corner window, leaned back against the wall and looked out over the dark, empty city.</p><p> </p><p>His heart rate was high, his skin overly-warm and sweating. Some of it was from the last of the drugs working through his body. The rest was psychological. His stomach had tied itself into a painful, twisted knot at the news of Nora’s last sighting, and fear and anxiety rushed through him like their own type of drug. . </p><p> </p><p>On top of it all, he was angry. Dizzyingly, uncontrollably angry, worse than he had been in a long, long time. The worst part was, he couldn’t decide what to be angry about. </p><p> </p><p>That his power armor was gone? That was a big one, if petty in the grand scheme of things. He could fight fine without power armor, but losing it made him inefficient. Vulnerable. Weak. He was sickened to think of his project in the hands of some miserable Railroad minion. Deacon swore he’d get it back, but he had already dismissed Deacon as a smarmy, lying snake who deserved to get his teeth knocked out. </p><p> </p><p>But it was about more than  that. It was anger at being captured in the first place. Drugged, ejected from his armor, dragged around and chained up. He was still fuming about the vitriol Glory had spat in his face, the cruel glee with which she boasted of ending the lives of Brotherhood soldiers. It had taken every ounce of control in his body to keep from exploding at her. And all of it was pointless, some stupid Railroad game of secrecy and espionage.</p><p> </p><p>The Railroad, that Nora was working for. </p><p> </p><p>That was really what this was about, wasn’t it? Nora Carter, Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel, had been shirking her oath, undermining the cause to moonlight as a synth smuggler. It explained an awful lot about her distance from the Brotherhood of late. It’s smart to keep a low profile in an organization when you’re busy working for their enemies on the side. </p><p> </p><p>She’d always been a little rough around the edges, but it was expected of a newly-recruited wastelander. He’d more than once caught her making faces, rolling her eyes, scoffing at orders from the Proctors or Elder Maxson. Danse knew she had a stubborn streak, and was even increasingly charmed by it. He’d never expected it would lead to this. Treason. Something she’d be executed for if Maxson ever found out about it. </p><p> </p><p>But no matter how angry part of him insisted he had a right to feel, no matter how he should take the news as a betrayal, he couldn’t fully accept it that way. </p><p> </p><p>It made too much sense. Nora <em> had </em>been disillusioned with the Brotherhood, after all that happened to him. No matter how he’d tried to tell her it was appropriate, she felt slighted on his behalf. Of course she wasn’t loyal after watching them, in her eyes, instantly turn on one of their own. (But it wasn’t like that with him. They didn’t betray him. It was necessary. It was right. Or so he’d been trying to convince himself for two months now.) </p><p> </p><p>She was a kind soul who gave of herself to help others. Of course she’d feel drawn to an organization that billed themselves as a charitable service, a righteous savior of the helpless and enslaved synths. A ramshackle amateur organization that through their lack of resources, staff, and planning, had inadvertently gotten her captured. Potentially killed. </p><p> </p><p>Why did she go alone? Why didn’t she tell him? If he was by her side, he could have protected her. He could have obliterated all those synths with ease, kept her safe, kept the “package” safe too, if she wanted him to. Why couldn’t he have been there? Why didn’t she trust him? </p><p> </p><p>Of course, the cold, hard truth of the matter was obvious. </p><p> </p><p><em> Why the hell </em> would <em> she trust you? You hate synths.  </em></p><p> </p><p> He’d told her so many times that they were anathema, an affront to God or nature or any other higher power there was. How they would become a second downfall of humankind, in the hands of thoughtless scientists driven by ego and hubris. He expressed his disgust at every opportunity. Spat venom in Valentine’s face, to the point where Nora hissed at him to shut his mouth. Triumphantly gunned them down every chance they got, and celebrated Maxson’s glorious notion that the Brotherhood would wipe them all off the face of the earth. </p><p> </p><p>He’d knelt before her and practically begged her to put a bullet in his head, for the unforgivable crime of existing. He was nothing if not consistent. Danse hated synths, and of every soulless mechanical freak that had ever been assembled, he hated himself most of all. </p><p> </p><p>Of course Nora didn’t trust him. He’d never given her a single, solitary reason to think she’d be able to come to him about synths. Helping synths. Risking her life for synths. Why open herself to his anger and judgment, risk making herself the next target of his ire? </p><p> </p><p>His hatred had forced her hand. Driven her to this, pushed her away from him into secrecy, and solitude, and now, it may very well have cost her life. </p><p> </p><p>He spent more than an hour sitting there, forcing himself to think through everything that was happening. Thinking about the hatred that even now pearled inside him, poisoning everything around it. Thinking about Nora and their last conversation, the look on her face when he called himself a machine. If only she’d told him the truth then. If only she’d felt safe enough to do so. </p><p> </p><p>Danse finally opened his eyes to find them stinging. He hurriedly pressed them with the heels of his hands. There was no time to wallow in regrets. He didn’t get the luxury of falling apart right now. </p><p> </p><p>This was his fault, now he had to pick himself up and get back out there to fix it. To find her. To save her. </p><p> </p><p>Footsteps on the stairwell startled him. Probably Valentine. For all the prior bad blood between them (figure of speech,) Danse was surprised that he wasn’t the person he <em> least </em>wanted to see. (Person… how easily he’d slipped to call him that. With all that charisma, Valentine honestly made it easy to forget.) </p><p> </p><p>But it wasn’t Valentine opening the door from the stairs. It was the young woman, Glory, scanning the room, then sauntering in once she’d spotted him. She also wasn’t the person he least wanted to see, but only by a slim margin. (That would be Deacon.) </p><p> </p><p>“There you are.” Hands on her hips, she approached him. “I half expected you to go outside out of spite.” </p><p> </p><p>“And risk giving us away?” Danse scowled at her. “I know how a clandestine outpost works.” </p><p> </p><p>“Just checking.” She cocked her head to one side and gave him an uncomfortably searching look. </p><p> </p><p>He was sorely tempted to ignore her presence, but that sounded even more torturous than this already was. “If you’ve come here to antagonize me, you’re wasting your time. I’m not interested in debating my former allegiance with you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t,” said Glory. “I’ve only got one question for you.” </p><p> </p><p>It was going to be <em> ‘how many synths have you killed </em>.’ He was sure of it. And he was going to have to tell her he’d completely lost track. “If you must.” </p><p> </p><p>“What did the Brotherhood <em> do </em>to you?” </p><p> </p><p>“I beg your pardon?” </p><p> </p><p>“I want to know how <em> you </em>happened,” she said. “How the hell do they jack up a synth so hard that you believe everything they say about us?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse stared at her. Her face, her eyes, her skin and hair. “‘Us?’” </p><p> </p><p>“Did I not mention?” she said. “I’m the Institute’s worst nightmare. A liberated synth turned asskicking angel of death.”</p><p> </p><p>No, she hadn’t mentioned. She looked and acted exactly like a human being, down to the unconventional, rebellious cut of her hair. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that the Railroad would permit a synth within their ranks, rather than treat them like precious cargo. “Packages” to be delivered. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re pretty much straight out of their nightmares too. A Brotherhood-brainwashed synth that wants them all dead,” Glory remarked. “Ad vic-fuckin’-toriam.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. How unfortunate for the Institute,” said Danse bitterly. “To create me, only to have me end up an enemy. A soldier, at war with everything they stand for.” </p><p> </p><p>“Exactly. That’s why I had to ask. How does a synth end up so deep in that bullshit? How do you buy in with humans who hate you for existing?”</p><p> </p><p>He felt his hackles rising, defensive. “Simple. You don’t know you’re a synth.” </p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t know?” </p><p> </p><p>“No. I had no idea.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ah… Now that makes more sense.” </p><p> </p><p>Strange, how immediately that seemed to disarm her. She readily accepted it with no questions or challenges. Stranger still, she came over and had a seat on the other side of the desk, facing inward. </p><p> </p><p>“Must have been fucking rough, figuring it out. Much less in a place like the Brotherhood,” she said. “I’m sorry you went through that.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse bristled, facing out the window. His face burned, and the knot in his gut twisted tighter. There was something wrenching about hearing the sentiment from a near-stranger, from someone who’d gleefully taunted him before. From another synth. How pathetic must he look if such a simple admission wrung sympathy from her? </p><p> </p><p>“How’d you figure it out?” asked Glory. </p><p> </p><p>“Institute intel. DNA samples. My face on a synth roster.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ah.” </p><p> </p><p>Since it was apparently the business of everyone in the Commonwealth to pry into his “life” story, he decided to return the favor. “How did <em> you </em>figure out?” </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing to figure out,” said Glory. “I’ve always known what I am. I never did the mind-wipe.” </p><p> </p><p>That caught him by surprise. “You didn’t?” </p><p> </p><p>“Hell no. I wanted to work with the Railroad. I wanted to remember everything I could about where I came from.” She brought her knee up to sit more comfortably on the desk. “I don’t blame the ones who do it, though. It’s hard as shit, living like this, knowing what you’re running from, what’s waiting in the shadows to take you back. I get wanting to leave all that behind.” </p><p> </p><p>“So that means you still remember the Institute?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Could never forget it.” </p><p> </p><p>In the past few months, Danse had plenty of time to wonder about his circumstances. Plenty of time to come up with theories, timelines, possible explanations for how he’d ended up like this, a machine that thought it was human, trained to hate his own kind. Most of it was stuck in the realm of theory, because he didn’t have any information to confirm or disprove it. </p><p> </p><p>It never occurred to him that he’d have the opportunity to talk to someone who might. </p><p> </p><p>Would she mock him? Would she hold it over his head? He had used up all his patience for the day, and had no idea how he’d respond if she tried to humiliate him for asking. But he had to take the risk. He couldn’t let this chance for answers pass him by. </p><p> </p><p>“What... is it like there?” </p><p> </p><p>“Clean. Sterile. The total opposite of out here. Everything is… bright, and polished. To the point it hurts your eyes.” Glory let out a short breath. “I’ll warn you now, I can’t tell you as much as you’re hoping I can.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because I didn’t see most of it. When I wasn’t on surface detail, they kept me in storage.”</p><p> </p><p>“In storage?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. In the barracks. Big dark room, with lousy ‘beds.’ More like shelves. Crammed in there with the others until they needed me. That’s what they do with us. Take you out, do your job, put you away. Like a broom.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse was hoping he’d have at least some flash of familiarity. Some long-lost vision of a white room, or synth barracks, or anything along those lines. But everything he pictured from Glory’s description came purely from his imagination.</p><p> </p><p>“If I can’t remember,” he began carefully, “then that means I had my mind-wiped?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Probably.”</p><p> </p><p>He let out a breath, leaning back against the wall beside the window. “I don’t remember the Institute. I don’t remember anything like that. I remember being a child. Growing up alone in the wasteland.” </p><p> </p><p>“They always give you a past with the mind-wipe. Being a kid,” Glory explained. “You wouldn’t blend in very well if you didn’t have any memories at all.” </p><p> </p><p>“Or I could have been…” Danse had to swallow back bile. This particular theory was the one that made him sickest of all. “There could have been a human man. That I replaced. They could have given me his memories, to make me an infiltrator.” </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe.” Glory pursed her lips. “Though it’s weird you wouldn’t have known.” </p><p> </p><p>“How better to make me blend in?” </p><p> </p><p>“Well sure, but it’s hard to be a spy if you don’t <em> know </em>that you’re spying.”</p><p> </p><p>“Until they flip the switch,” he said. “Wait for me to infiltrate the Brotherhood, then take over. Make me attack from the inside.” </p><p> </p><p>“Is that what they said you’d do?” Glory scoffed. “Snap like an overheated Sentrybot and start killing people?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse glared at her. “Is that not what synths are designed for?”</p><p> </p><p>“Buddy… despite what your average Commonwealth bumpkin thinks, there’s no ‘switch.’” </p><p> </p><p>“How do you know?” </p><p> </p><p>“Basic logic. If they could take us over with a switch, then they sure as hell wouldn’t leave me out here to keep bringing the pain on their surface crews.” She chuckled, bringing her other knee up and resting her elbows on them. “There wouldn’t be any runaways. There wouldn’t be any need for Coursers. All they’ve got on us is recall codes. That’s bad enough.” </p><p> </p><p>That was… a sensible point, actually. Why would synths ever escape if the Institute could remotely control them? They’d simply flip the “switch” and call them back, with no fuss at all. </p><p> </p><p>Did that mean Glory was right? That short of Coursers, or a recall code, he was actually beyond the Institute’s reach? Beyond their influence? (Half the Brotherhood’s concern had been the possibility that he was a synth sleeper, that there was some puppetmaster ready to take his strings and turn him hostile at a moment’s notice. Of course they were right to be concerned about that, but if that wasn’t a possibility.. if there wasn’t a switch…)</p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t intended to grill Glory on the ins and outs of synthhood. He hadn’t even intended to talk to her. But now that he was, and now that she seemed amenable to answer his questions, there was one more thing he was dying to ask.</p><p> </p><p>“If I had a mind-wipe performed on me… then I suppose it was the Railroad that did it.” </p><p> </p><p>“More than likely.” Glory looked at him over her shoulder, a grimly sympathetic smile on her face. “I think I know where you’re going with this. I hate to disappoint, but I’m gonna tell you the same thing Deacon or our leader or anybody else will tell you… unless you went through the Railroad in the past six months? They won’t remember you.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse frowned. “Are you sure?” </p><p> </p><p>“They don’t keep records. They don’t want to remember. They want you far away and forgotten, so the Institute will never find you.” She shook her head. “Hell, there’s Railroad outside the Commonwealth. It might not have been our branch who took care of you.” </p><p> </p><p>So the Railroad was far more than just a small group of radicals in the Commonwealth. There were other branches in other places, and the synth-who-would-be-Danse could have gone through any of them to receive his new memories. That didn’t narrow anything down whatsoever.</p><p> </p><p>    “I understand wanting to know where you came from. But that’s not the way we work,” said Glory. “Odds are, you’re never going to find out. You gotta learn to deal with it. But maybe it’ll help you to remember-- there was a reason the old you wanted to forget. He’s safer now, because you did.” </p><p> </p><p>She was probably right. There was likely no way he’d ever know the specifics. How long ago he’d escaped. Who’d helped him after. When, exactly, his manufactured memories ended and the real ones began. </p><p> </p><p>Somewhere in the past, M7-97 had decided it was better to forget. To disappear and start a new life. </p><p> </p><p>He had thought about his “old” self in the past few months, on occasion. Dismissed it as the pathetic longing of a desperate mind. Now, however, he found himself more accepting of his curiosity. He wondered what M7-97 was like. What he’d been through. The kind of… synth he’d been. </p><p> </p><p>“I… appreciate your forthrightness, on the subject,” Danse said softly, after a moment. “I’m sorry that we got off on the wrong foot.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey. No problem.” Glory chuckled. “I did go a little hard on the bootlicking thing.” </p><p> </p><p>“It had a,” Danse forced himself to say, “purpose. I suppose.” </p><p> </p><p>“Wish you could have seen Deacon’s face. For a moment, he really thought I might blow your brains out. He thought he fucked up big time.”</p><p> </p><p>That did sound rather amusing. Apart from the notion of Glory shooting him in the head. “Thank you for speaking so frankly with me. I… still have a lot of thinking to do, on the subject.”  </p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” she said. “Glad I could help, brother.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s chest tightened. “Brother?”</p><p> </p><p>“Synths are my people. All synths.” Glory smirked at him. “Whoever you are and whatever you were, deep down, you’re my brother. That’s important to me.” </p><p> </p><p>“I... see.” </p><p> </p><p>“Does that bother you?” </p><p> </p><p>“No.” He simply couldn’t hear the word without thinking of salutes, of soldiers smiling with pride. Of his brothers and sisters in arms, the only family he’d ever had. The family he’d lost. </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t have time to dwell on it for long. Outside the window, there came a blinding blue flash, like a bolt of lightning striking down the street. He jumped upright in surprise, and so did Glory. More flashes followed in quick succession, glinting off the filthy glass of the window. </p><p> </p><p>Down on the street, a dark figure cut through the flickering glow of a streetlamp. A group of stiff silhouettes followed. Danse could make out the yellow glow of their eyes from here. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, <em> fuck </em>.” Glory jumped to her feet. “It’s a Courser.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Danse stayed hot on Glory’s heels as she thundered down the stairs two at a time. She gripped the railing to spin herself off the first floor landing, racing to the building’s boarded-up front door to peer out a small crack in the plywood.</p><p> </p><p>“Goddamnit!” Glory backed away from the door. “Too much to hope they were just in the neighborhood.”</p><p> </p><p>He followed her down to the basement. “We’ve got a Courser and gen-1s en route!” she shouted. “Heading for the front door!” </p><p> </p><p>Deacon and Valentine jumped up from the sofa, and Ratchet lifted her head from looming over the broken synth. “Courser?” echoed Deacon. </p><p> </p><p>“Did I stutter?” </p><p> </p><p>“You gotta be freakin’ kidding me.” Deacon rushed to a terminal in the corner and started frantically tapping on the keys. “This is one of those days, isn’t it…” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m almost done!” announced Ratchet. </p><p> </p><p>“How long have we got?” asked Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>“As long as it takes them to break in.” Glory threw open a closet door. Inside, a shelf held a collection of firearms and ammunition. She pulled out Danse’s laser rifle and tossed it to him, then did the same with Valentine’s two pipe weapons. </p><p> </p><p>“We’ve got a few defenses that’ll slow them down… briefly.” Deacon’s terminal beeped. “There. That set off a little bang across the street. Hopefully, it’ll distract them long enough for us to get out the back. Glory?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll buy you some time.” She strapped on a minigun roughly the size of her entire body. “But you gotta go. Now.”   </p><p> </p><p>“Can you hold them off for five minutes?” asked Ratchet. “It’s almost ready to start up!”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not standing up there getting shot while you tinker!” called Glory.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re gonna have to cut and run, Ratch,” said Deacon. “You’ve gotta leave it. We’re not going to have time to follow it while we’re getting tailed.” </p><p> </p><p>“But it’s almost--” </p><p> </p><p>“If they corner us in this basement, we’re done for,” Danse cut in. “It’s not worth your life. You need to grab what you can and escape while we engage them.” </p><p> </p><p>“‘We?’” said Glory. </p><p> </p><p>Danse narrowed his eyes and flicked the safety off on his rifle. “You don’t think you’re going to fight them by yourself?” </p><p> </p><p>“Whoa, whoa, whoa. We’ve caused you guys enough trouble as it is,” Deacon protested. “We can’t ask you to fight off a <em> Courser </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess we’ll explain to the Courser that we’re not with the Railroad,” said Valentine sarcastically. “I’m sure they’ll be courteous enough to shoot you <em> around </em>us.” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay… point.” Deacon rubbed a hand over his shiny bald head. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t sweat it.” Valentine strapped on his rife. “We’re in just as deep as you are. It’ll be our pleasure to help.” </p><p> </p><p>Glory smirked. “Let’s make it a party, then.” </p><p> </p><p>“You guys be careful,” said Deacon warily. “No heroics. Just keep ‘em distracted long enough for me to get Ratch outta here.” </p><p> </p><p>“God…” Ratchet sighed heavily, grabbed the receiver chip, and tucked it into her jacket pocket. “I never should have signed up for field duty…” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine gestured up the stairs with his skeletal hand. “Ladies first, Glory.” </p><p> </p><p>Back on the first floor, the defenses had been activated. A few turrets sprung to life in the ceiling, and red lights flashed on a proximity sensor wired to the entryway. Someone-- some<em> thing </em> was banging hard against the plywood boarded over the door. The panel rattled and jumped, the center of the piece beginning to splinter and crack. </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s blood went hot and his nerves steeled as he slipped seamlessly into battle-mode. Thoughts and fears and concerns outside the moment vanished into the fog, blocked out by carefully-honed instinct. </p><p> </p><p>This was a good place to make a stand. Early-gen synths weren’t particularly durable; and problems fighting them came from sheer numbers. The door would make a perfect chokepoint, mitigating that issue. Then they would start circling the building, looking for other points of entrance. The large bay windows on either side of the first floor were an obvious second choice. </p><p> </p><p>The real problems would come when the Courser arrived. Too smart to put itself into the chokepoint. It’d come through the windows… or somewhere else. </p><p> </p><p>“Valentine.” Danse motioned with his head. “Stand over there. Watch the left side and keep an eye on that window. I’ll take the right.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sounds good.” Valentine moved into position. </p><p> </p><p>“Glory, sweep your fire. Stay centered, and let us take the flanks. If any get out of the entry I’ll pick them off.” </p><p> </p><p>“Shit, you really are a jackboot, aren’t you?” muttered Glory. “This is why I usually fly solo.” </p><p> </p><p>“If you’d prefer to handle this yourself…” </p><p> </p><p>“I could,” she said. “But I shouldn’t hog <em> all </em>the action.” </p><p> </p><p>The plywood over the door buckled, then snapped, bursting inward with a shower of splinters. The first pair of gen-1 synths stuck their ugly skeletal faces through. </p><p> </p><p>“Fire in the hole!” Glory’s minigun whirred to life in a hail of bullets. The invading synths recoiled as the gunfire chewed through their fragile metal bodies and made short work of the remaining plywood. Two more synths poured through the opening and opened fire, and the real fight began. </p><p> </p><p>Between the turrets, two guns, and a minigun, they kept the flood of a dozen gen-1s pinned back in the entryway. The first one only made it past when Glory had to stop and reload, but it set off the proximity detector in the process. The mine burst with a shower of shrapnel and took out that synth, and the few remnants still struggling broken on the floor. </p><p> </p><p>The next wave was smarter. Glass shattered off to the left. Just as Danse predicted, they were coming through the window. Valentine was ready for them. The foyer turned chaotic as blue laserfire erupted from all directions. </p><p> </p><p>Overhead, one of the turrets exploded in a rush of smoke. Danse took cover around a corner, and Valentine was smart enough to do the same. Glory stood strong against the wall, keeping the front door covered, mowing down every synth that tried to get through.</p><p> </p><p>The only wrinkle came when Danse heard footsteps on the stairwell behind them. He turned in time to intercept a group of synths coming up from the basement, knocking them right back down with laserfire and shooting until they stopped moving. The back exit had been breached, but the synths had clearly faced no interference inside. Deacon and the mechanic must have made it out. </p><p> </p><p>Glory’s gun slowed to a stop, the barrel glowing red hot. “Everybody good?” </p><p> </p><p>“No sweat,” said Valentine. Danse interpreted this to be a wry remark, given his physiology. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m unharmed,” he said of himself.</p><p> </p><p>Valentine brushed off his coat. “That was a hell of a lot of synths. You folks really warrant that much fuss?” </p><p> </p><p>“Somebody thinks we do.” Glory sighed heavily, reaching up to rustle her hair. “Poor things. Sent out en masse to die.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse stopped in the middle of reloading his rifle to throw her quite the side-eye. “You can’t kill something that isn’t alive.” </p><p> </p><p>“Really?” she replied, deadpan. “They’re synths too, you know.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. But they’re obviously not like…” Danse couldn’t bring himself to say “us” this time.</p><p> </p><p>“Not according to the Institute.”</p><p> </p><p>“I hate to interrupt a riveting philosophical argument,” said Valentine, who likely had a vested personal interest in avoiding that topic. “But weren’t we expecting a Courser?”</p><p> </p><p>Of course. The gen-1s had thoroughly probed the building for entrances, but there had been no sign whatsoever of any elite units. Unless it was waiting for them in ambush. </p><p> </p><p>“Reconnoiter out front. Carefully,” said Danse. “I’ll sweep the basement.” He stuck close to the wall and stepped quietly as he headed down the stairs. </p><p> </p><p>The basement had been thoroughly trashed, even worse than before. Furniture was overturned and tossed about including, improbably, the billiard table tipped completely on its side. All of the doors had been opened, the shelves picked-through. All useful weapons or ammunition were gone, swept clean either by the synths, or by Deacon on his way out. Ratchet’s unfinished synth lay lifeless on the ground beside the billiard table, its eyes faintly glowing, and the four that Danse had shot lay scattered across the steps. There was no sign of life otherwise. </p><p> </p><p>Danse hurried back upstairs to find Glory ushering him out the front door. “Hurry up. I think he went after Deacon.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine was already on the front steps, having finished his own sweep. “Can Deacon hold his own?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure. But alone, protecting Ratchet, against a Courser?” She hiked her minigun upright to facilitate running. “They would have headed to our fallback point.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse recognized the neighborhood’s architecture, and identified their general location as somewhere to the southwest of Bunker Hill, near Monsignor Plaza. It was roughly a mile from where he and Valentine had been waylaid. </p><p> </p><p>Glory led the way through the dark streets, taking odd turns that routed through fallen fences and unobvious paths. This area seemed devoid of life, even lacking the ordinary echoes of distant gunfire that underscored the downtown area. Deeper they went, winding their way to their unknown destination in utter silence. </p><p> </p><p>Until they heard a scream. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck!” Glory broke into a sprint. Danse and Valentine followed her close. </p><p> </p><p>They rounded a corner into a dead end, an alley with a decrepit automobile half-smashed against a brick building. Deacon lay on the ground, writhing in pain, fighting to stand up. Ratchet was pinned to the hood of the car. A man in a long, black coat had an Institute pistol in one hand, and the other around Ratchet’s throat. </p><p> </p><p>“Unit L6-65, initialize factory reset,” he said in a cold monotone. “Authorization code Sigma 1 2 Kappa--” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine opened fire, the loud rattle of his automatic rifle tearing through the air. A volley of bullets riddled into the man’s back, causing him to flinch. He released Ratchet, and she fell limp across the hood of the car. </p><p> </p><p>The man stood upright, turning around slowly. He was fair-skinned with brown hair, a stern and angular face, a flat, expressionless mouth. He would have looked normal if not for the eyes. Cold, sharp, lifeless eyes that showed not the slightest hint of emotion. </p><p> </p><p>Not a man. A synth. An Institute Courser, the dreaded elite agents only whispered about in the available intelligence. </p><p> </p><p> “Mother<em> fucker </em>!” Glory screamed, and opened up on him, and Valentine quickly joined her. Danse followed suit, the red flash of his lasers adding to the assault. </p><p> </p><p>The Courser neatly sidestepped the gunfire and broke into a run, rushing towards them. Suddenly, it flickered and vanished. No… it was a stealth field. Danse saw the slight distortion in the air where the field cloaked the Courser’s form. It shimmered oddly as blue fire from the synth’s Institute pistol disrupted it. </p><p> </p><p>Danse calmly kept firing. He was certain most of his shots were landing, but the Courser was alarmingly impervious to damage, soaking up bullets and laserfire like they were no stronger than a flashlight beam. Danse backed away to keep the space between them, plugging burst after burst into the elite synth. </p><p> </p><p>Its footfalls pounded closer. Too close. Glory howled in frustration; she couldn’t fire anymore without risking hitting an ally. Valentine went flying aside as though lifted by a gust of wind. Danse heard a grunt directly in front of him. </p><p> </p><p>The next thing he knew, he was tackled to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>They struggled. The Courser pried the rifle out of his hands and he felt the press of the pistol’s plastic casing against his head. One shot at this range from even the piss-weak Institute lasers would be enough to burn a hole through his skull. Two shots, straight through his brain.</p><p> </p><p>Too bad for the Courser, Danse had been trained in close-quarter tactics. He thrust a hand through the stealth field and snagged the Courser’s wrist, twisting hard to disarm it. The pistol clattered to the ground overhead. As he felt the Courser reached for it, it gave Danse the opportunity to throw his weight and get out from under the pin. </p><p> </p><p>The Courser was <em> strong </em>, rivaling even the burliest soldiers Danse had ever grappled with out of armor. He felt it swing a fist, and he tensed, taking a few blows to the solar plexus that nearly knocked the wind out of him. They struggled in a tangle, Danse’s limbs vanishing under the stealth field, forcing him to operate only by touch. A little further… he could pin it… damn it, was it getting a second wind? It shoved him hard. His back hit the street.</p><p> </p><p>He heard gunshots beside him. One, two, three, four, five. The stealth field flickered after the first shot and he watched the Courser’s head jolt, again, and again, and again. A metal hand pressed a revolver point blank against the Courser’s temple and fired. </p><p> </p><p>Blood and bits of cranial matter burst from the other side of the Courser’s skull, and it collapsed on top of Danse.</p><p> </p><p>“Not so tough with your brains blown out, are ya?” muttered Valentine.</p><p> </p><p>Danse let out a grunt of exertion and shoved the Courser’s body.off of him. It slumped in the street. There were no sparks, no jitters, no mechanical sounds or movements. A pool of blood bloomed beneath its head, and it looked for all the world like a dead human man. </p><p> </p><p>“You okay?” asked Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” said Danse. “Thank you for the assist.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” With Danse’s condition assessed, Valentine instantly turned his attention to the others.</p><p> </p><p>Deacon, holding one hand clutched to his shoulder, knelt beside Glory. Ratchet lay on the ground between them, rigid and lifeless, her eyes closed.</p><p> </p><p>“Goddamnit!” Glory hissed. “Son of a bitch!” </p><p> </p><p>Danse picked himself up to move closer. “Is she hurt?” </p><p> </p><p>Glory threw him an utterly vicious look, but he could recognize that it wasn’t actually aimed at him. She let out a frustrated growl, then lowered her head. “Fucker got out her recall code.” </p><p> </p><p>“Recall code,” Valentine murmured. “Mind-wiped?” </p><p> </p><p>“More or less.” Glory shook her head. “Shut down her brain. Erased her memories. Like she was just… created.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse let out a heavy breath. “She’s a synth.” It was less a question than an acknowledgement of fact. </p><p> </p><p>Valentine sighed. “Ah, Jesus…” </p><p> </p><p>“She escaped four months ago. Ended up with us.” Glory stroked her fingers through Ratchet’s red-dyed hair. “She used to repair the old models. Knew all about ‘em. She was no fighter, but she begged us to let her help.” </p><p> </p><p>Deacon had his lips grimly pressed together. He slid a hand over his sunglasses, then up to clutch his bald forehead beneath the cap he was wearing. “I never should have brought her out here,” he muttered. “I never should have let her take that risk. The minute I saw that bastard heading straight for her, I knew. God, I fucked up.” </p><p> </p><p>“This is how the Coursers do it?” asked Danse. “Say a code, and... it’s over?” </p><p> </p><p>Glory shook her head. “If they’d brought her back to the Institute, they’d take her in and reprogram her from scratch. Wipe everything. Rewire her brain, hoping it’ll get rid of the ‘flaws.’ Like free will is a fucking <em> malfunction </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“But they didn’t,” said Valentine gently. “She’s still here. Still with you.” </p><p> </p><p>“So can she be--” Danse hesitated, his voice catching for some reason even he couldn’t discern yet. “Reactivated?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. But she’ll be L6-65. A blank slate,” said Deacon. “She won’t be Ratchet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes she will,” said Glory vehemently. “That’s her name. That’s who she is.” </p><p> </p><p>“Glory--” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t give a shit what anybody says. We’re not just fucking <em> hardware </em>,” she snapped. “Somewhere in there, she’s Ratchet. It’s not some accident in her programming. It’s her.” </p><p> </p><p>Deacon exhaled slowly. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll follow your lead, G. You just… tell me what you want us to do.” </p><p> </p><p>Glory took a few deep breaths to regain her composure. She closed her eyes for the last one, then looked up. “Take her back to HQ,” she said. “Let her rest, let her just… be for a while. She’ll be all right.” </p><p> </p><p>Deacon nodded, then leaned in close to the inert synth. “Unit L6-65. Activate.”</p><p> </p><p>Her body relaxed. Her chest rose and fell as she began to breathe again. She opened her eyes and blinked. After a few seconds, visible confusion crossed her expression. </p><p> </p><p>“What is happening?” she asked, her voice soft and monotonous. “Where am I?” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Ratchet,” Deacon’s tone was immediately cheerier, devoid of the emotion from a moment before. “Took quite a bonk on the head there, kiddo. Are you feeling okay?” </p><p> </p><p>“I…” She looked a little bewildered as Glory slid an arm beneath her to help her sit up. “I don’t feel injured. Who are you?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s all right, sister,” said Glory. “You’re safe with us.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m your sister?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ratch… listen.” Glory leaned in to speak softly with her. </p><p> </p><p>Deacon, meanwhile, attempted to get back on his feet. It was performed with some difficulty, one hand still pressed to the blossoming red stain near his shoulder. Valentine offered him a hand up, which he accepted. Then Deacon paced a short distance, let out a heavy and ragged exhale, and turned to face them. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, I’d like to say our ops usually go a lot smoother than this. But I’d be lying.” His calm and casual demeanor was back, albeit with the merest hint of genuine remorse. “I’m sorry, kids. I fucked up big time. I got Ratchet wiped. Our chances of getting that receiver installed just went up in smoke.”</p><p> </p><p>“Deacon, I don’t want to hear another word about it. You’ve got a young woman’s welfare to worry about,” said Valentine sharply. “You leave that receiver to Danse and me. Between the two of us, we’re probably <em> almost </em>as smart as Ratchet. We’ll pick up the trail.”</p><p> </p><p>“No. No, I’ve gotta help you. This has all been my fault,” Deacon argued. “I owe it to Nora to see this through.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse found himself, oddly, strongly agreeing with Valentine. “You are a Railroad operative. You owe it to this synth to see her to safety.” </p><p> </p><p>“And you owe it to Nora not to god damn bleed to death because you’re being stubborn,” added Valentine.</p><p> </p><p>Deacon glanced down at his chest. He made a cross between a smile and a wince. “Oh… noticed that, did you…” </p><p> </p><p>“The hell did you do?” asked Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, who doesn’t get shot every now and then?” He shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “I’ve been hurt way worse than this. Like one time, I got shot in the head and buried alive. No kidding.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse recognized the feeble attempt to disarm a tense situation with humor. “An injured man isn’t operating at his best. You need to tend to your wounds. Mister Valentine and I are more than capable of continuing our investigation ourselves.” </p><p> </p><p>“We’ve got this, Deacon,” said Valentine. “We’ll get her back.” </p><p> </p><p>Deacon looked back and forth between them, Ratchet, and Glory. At last, he sighed and let his uninjured shoulder slump. “You’re right,” he said. “That’s the smart move.” </p><p> </p><p>Glory helped Ratchet to her feet, and Deacon stepped up beside them. He muttered a quick “excuse me” and reached into Ratchet’s jacket pocket, withdrawing the receiver chip.</p><p> </p><p>“You guys take care.” Deacon handed the chip to Valentine. “Bring her back safe, okay?” </p><p> </p><p>“Count on it,” said Valentine. “You all take care of yourselves too.” </p><p> </p><p>“If anything happens to you before you return my power armor,” said Danse, “you’re a dead man, Deacon.”</p><p> </p><p>“Danse, you big sweetheart,” Deacon chuckled. “We’ll get together for a barbecue when all this is over, and have a good laugh about it.” </p><p> </p><p>With that, he took Ratchet by the hand and hurried into the shadows to lead her away. Glory stopped before following them to offer Danse and Valentine a nod.</p><p> </p><p>“Stay safe, brothers.” She tossed a smirk at Danse, then she and her minigun vanished into the night. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They started walking, in no direction in particular, aiming mostly to get a good distance away from the dead Courser. That old, irritating silence was back. This time far weightier than it had ever been before, even worse than the heavy, awkward space between them from the first day. </p><p> </p><p>The past few hours felt completely surreal. Being captured and interrogated, falling in with the Railroad, fighting off the Institute synths and a Courser. But that all seemed insignificant at the moment. Danse couldn’t stop thinking about the young woman. The synth. Hearing that sequence of words and falling helpless, her body seized, her mind blanked. Her memories wiped clean, made pliable for her brain to be rewired. To “fix” the “malfunction.” </p><p> </p><p>“That was… a lot,” said Valentine. “You holding up okay?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse felt a sharp pang. Defensiveness, irritation, annoyance. His nerves were fried, and he absolutely hated the fact he was obvious enough for Valentine to check if he was well. That was confirmation enough that he wasn’t. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you?” he asked, instead of answering. </p><p> </p><p>“Pretty damn frazzled, to be honest.” Valentine plucked a cigarette from his pocket. “That poor girl. I’ve never seen anything like that before.” </p><p> </p><p>“Me neither,” said Danse. </p><p> </p><p>What must it feel like to have your mind ripped away from you in an instant? Would there still be anything left of you to realize it? To mourn it? Or were you spared the agony of knowing what you’d lost? Utterly blanked, like a holotape. </p><p> </p><p>Danse wondered if he’d ever been recalled, sometime in a lost memory. If any other synths had gone through it for his sake. If any Railroad agents died to save him. </p><p> </p><p>Valentine lit his cigarette and put it to his mouth. “Listen,” he said softly. “If you… need to get anything off your chest--” </p><p> </p><p>For a machine, Valentine had an impressive sense of compassion. It wasn’t unappreciated, but when Danse had to keep his head on straight, the distraction was unwelcome. </p><p> </p><p>“This isn’t the time, nor the place.” He endeavored to keep his tone gentle, if stern. “We have work to do.”</p><p> </p><p>Valentine gave him a sidelong glance. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he looked concerned. “Right.” </p><p> </p><p>“...Thank you, all the same.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure.” </p><p> </p><p>When they had made some good distance from the Courser, Valentine started turning more specific corners. Backtracking, Danse recognized. He was relieved to have literally <em> anything </em>else to talk about. “You seem to have a plan.”</p><p> </p><p>“Only plan we’ve got,” said Valentine. “We follow the receiver. Stick it in a working synth and hope it picks up a signal.” </p><p> </p><p>“I hope you aren’t referring to yourself.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, hell no,” Valentine scoffed. “I’m not sticking some amateur garbage in my head. I may not have the best programming there ever was, but I’m pretty keen on keeping it intact.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why? Would you miss me?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse again recognized the feeble attempt to disarm a tense situation with humor. “I’d prefer not to have to explain to Nora that I allowed you to short out your personality for her sake.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, that’d be awkward.” Valentine shoved his hands in the pocket of his coat. “No, I know right where we can find a working synth. Or a nearly-working one, anyway If you don’t mind the possibility of having to finish fixing it up. Or having to shoot something on the way in.” </p><p> </p><p>“Shooting something would be a pleasure, at the moment.” </p><p> </p><p>The abandoned Railroad outpost looked empty from the outside. Broken gen-1 synths lay scattered on the front steps, and the smoke hadn’t yet cleared from the scuffle fifteen minutes ago. </p><p> </p><p>“Seems pretty dead. But we’d better move fast,” said Valentine. “I don’t trust the Institute will leave these guys lying around too long without sending a cleanup crew.” </p><p> </p><p>They went through the back alley, stepping over more fallen gen-1s to locate the escape hatch that Deacon had used earlier. It seemed that he had indeed faced opposition on his way out, and had apparently handled himself decently. </p><p> </p><p>“Looks like a bomb went off down here,” Valentine remarked, surveying the trashed basement. </p><p> </p><p>“It appears the synths ransacked the room before ambushing us on the stairs,” said Danse. “As though they were searching for something.” </p><p> </p><p>“The receiver, maybe.” Valentine circled around the billiard table and leaned down. He looked around, then got on his knees to look closer. “What the hell... “ </p><p> </p><p>“What is it?” </p><p> </p><p>“Where’d the lousy thing go?” </p><p> </p><p>“It was there when I did my sweep.” It had been lying right there on the ground where Valentine was searching.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, damn.” The old synth stood up, scratching his head in an oddly humanlike gesture. “Hope the other synths didn’t take it back home.” </p><p> </p><p>Or activate it themselves, Danse thought. If it had been up and around earlier, odds were very good that it had been blown to bits with the rest of its brethren. </p><p> </p><p>Valentine wore an expression similar to puzzlement. “You think between the two of us, we might be able to Frankenstein one of these things back together?” </p><p> </p><p>“If we can find one with fewer than six holes in it, perhaps.” </p><p> </p><p>“Better start digging.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse had little time to wonder how difficult the internal mechanics of an old-gen synth could be before something moved in the corner of his vision. At the top of the stairs. Something glinted bright and blue-- </p><p> </p><p>“Get down!” Danse yelled, leaping backwards. </p><p> </p><p>By some miraculous reflex Valentine dropped back, barely dodging a flurry of blue laser blasts aimed square at him. </p><p> </p><p>The missing synth stood at the top of the stairs, holding a laser pistol in each hand. Its blank face looked between its two targets, and it took aim at each of them. “<b>Error. Mission parameters undefined. Error. Self-defense activated.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>Danse fought the reflex to whip out his rifle and blow it straight to hell. They had to keep it intact. Subdue it. “Take cover!” he shouted, ducking behind the couch. “Lure it down here!” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine crawled behind the billiard table. This was less an attempt to take cover and more where he had fallen in his attempt at a dodge. </p><p> </p><p>The synth’s footsteps thudded methodically down the steps, one by one. “<b>Error. Mission parameters undefined. Destruction of fellow synth verified,</b>” its tinny robotic voice repeated, over and over. It fired wildly in every direction, blasting aimlessly until the fusion cells on its pistols ran out, and the trigger clicked uselessly. </p><p> </p><p>It glanced down at the pistols, as though discerning why they stopped working. In that instant, Danse jumped out, grabbed the synth, flipped it over his head and threw it to the floor. </p><p> </p><p>For the second time in an hour, Danse grappled with another synth He’d been attacked by these gen-2s before, in his power armor, but normally fought them off from a distance-- it was surprising how strong it was. He at last managed to get it in something resembling a chokehold, using all his weight to pin it to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>“Get it!” he barked. “Get its head open!” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine rushed in and threw himself into the fray, fighting to get the synth’s cranial plate off with his screwdriver. This was quite difficult as the thing struggled, thrashed, and tried to wriggle out of Danse’s hold. He heard the snapping and cracking of plastic and Valentine cursing as he resorted to breaking the plate completely, and yanking it away to expose the hardware that made up the synth’s brain. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, need you to get it real still while I plug this in…” </p><p> </p><p>“Roger that.” Danse tightened his grip. The synth squirmed and shuddered in his hold. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>Error! Cranial plate open! Error</b>!” </p><p> </p><p>There was a grunt. A click. A snap. The synth went rigid. </p><p> </p><p><b>“New hardware detected. Analyzing… preparing installation… installing… error! Unknown hardware! Error</b>-” </p><p> </p><p>And with that, the synth fell limp, collapsing lifelessly on the floor. </p><p> </p><p>Danse released it and sat up, breathing heavily. “Damn…” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine stumbled back. “You okay?” </p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” said Danse. “Strong little bastards.” </p><p> </p><p>“There are advantages to having bones of steel.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, you get to wrestle the next one.” </p><p> </p><p>The synth lay motionless, the yellow glow of its eyes reflecting off the floor the only sign of life. </p><p> </p><p>“I swear to God, if we just broke the damn thing…” Valentine muttered. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>Refining signal. Tuning. Tuning. Location data received. Analyzing… routing… destination confirmed.</b>”</p><p> </p><p>The synth flopped around for a moment, its limbs moving jerkily as though working out how to function all over again. It beeped, then pushed itself upright and rose to a standing position. There it stood for a moment, stiff and still, before it started walking to the stairs.  </p><p> </p><p>Heedless of the need to catch his breath, Danse scrambled to his feet. With Valentine right behind him, they followed the synth up the stairs, out the front door, and into the streets of Boston. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Gosh, it's too bad Danse has to accept never finding any further clues to his origins... Or DOES HE?! (No, he doesn't. I've got theories. With evidence, dangit!) </p><p>Glory's so cool. I knew she had to have a chat with our angsty ex-Paladin while she was here, but I also knew I had to send the Railroad on their way before she and Deacon took over the story. (In the game, I tend to go with the Minutemen/3-faction-peace ending for my ideal playthroughs. This accidentally turns Glory into a "sometimes I can still hear her voice" meme.) </p><p>Next chapter: Crime scene investigation, ominous clues, and the Nick and Danse heart-to-heart I wrote this whole damn fic for.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. All Along The Watchtower</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Crime scene investigation, ominous discoveries, and a heart-to-mechanical heart.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Small mercy after a day that could generously be described as “harrowing,” but a mercy all the same: the hijacked synth didn’t <em> run </em> to its destination. Instead, it walked ceaselessly through the streets at a moderate pace. Nick couldn’t technically <em> feel </em>exertion, but the mere idea of having to chase after it exhausted him.</p><p> </p><p>And Danse almost certainly would have collapsed before long. He still looked a bit listless, breathing heavily, his system likely working off the last effects of the drugs. Apart from those mild observations, he didn’t show any other sign he was tired-- no weakness in his stride, no lag in their pursuit. He didn’t even slow when a feral ghoul staggered towards them out of an alley. In a single fluid motion, he whipped out his rifle, fired three times, and burned a clean hole through its torso. It dropped dead in a smoking heap.</p><p> </p><p>The synth was headed northwest, following an old highway that cut along the western edge of downtown. Soon they left the taller buildings behind, heading in the direction of Cambridge. </p><p> </p><p>“I hope this damn thing isn’t going far,” Nick muttered, because he doubted he was the only one thinking it. The hijacked synth was quite literally their only lead, but he wasn’t looking forward to hiking straight out of the Commonwealth behind it. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s unlikely,” Danse was slightly winded when he tried to speak, “that it’s based too far away from the-- target area around Bunker Hill. It would be-- troublesome, to transport captured victims much further without-- the means of a vehicle.” </p><p> </p><p>He’d probably have an easier time getting that out if he didn’t always talk like he’d swallowed a thesaurus, Nick thought semi-unkindly. But that was a good observation. It would be difficult to carry a live victim far away, either struggling or deadweight unconscious. </p><p> </p><p>Sure enough, the synth turned north, heading towards Prospect Hill. Ruined businesses gave way to a residential area. The synth cut through a row of backyards and crossed a street into an open, empty area tangled with overgrown grass and weeds. The remnants of a park, perhaps. </p><p> </p><p>A commercial building stood alone at the north end of the park. Few lights still illuminated the exterior. The synth wove between the wrecked cars in the parking lot, circled the building, and headed in the front door.</p><p> </p><p>“Wattz Consumer Electronics,” said Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“You been here?” asked Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“Not personally. Due to the nature of the business and the proximity to the Cambridge Police Station, the location was marked for sweep-and-retrieve,” he said. “With the losses to my recon team, we didn’t have the manpower to safely investigate. Not while I was posted in the area, at least.” </p><p> </p><p>“Place looks totally abandoned.” Nick drew his pistol. “Let’s see what our little friend is up to in there.” </p><p> </p><p>Side by side, guns at the ready, the trenchcoated synth and the brawny soldier stepped through the doors. Nick stopped short and took a huge step to the right. “Watch it,” he whispered. “The floor’s caved in.” </p><p> </p><p>Immediately inside, a large section of the showroom floor had collapsed. Jagged chunks of concrete and framing created a makeshift ramp down into the basement. Empty shelves and the remains of displays clung to the intact floor sections like islands, and at the far corner of the room, lit windows indicated an upstairs office.</p><p> </p><p>Nick hugged the wall to the right, and Danse went left. With careful, quiet steps they surveyed the main floor. The picked-apart remnants of alarm clocks, lamps, radios, and other small devices littered the floors between the shelves. Several robots lay deactivated among the mess: slumped Protectrons, broken Mister Handys, their chassis bared where their plates and circuitry had been stripped away. </p><p> </p><p>Searching the few storerooms and the restrooms turned up empty. Danse headed up the metal stairs to the office while Nick picked the locked door beneath, revealing a ransacked employee break room. Someone had long since sorted through the ruins of the room, leaving nothing useful behind. </p><p> </p><p>They emerged at the same time. Danse shook his head, then motioned at the obvious gaping hole in the floor. Nick nodded. </p><p> </p><p>The stairwell was on the left side of the shop, leading down to a basement storage bay. Metal crates created a support for the floor “ramp,” and another door at the far end led to a workshop area and an office with a terminal inside. </p><p> </p><p>The entire building was empty. There was no sign of the synth.</p><p> </p><p>“Where the hell did it go?” muttered Danse. “There’s no way we could have missed its exit.” </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t even see another door.” Nick looked around, letting his detection systems scan the area once more. No movement, no sounds, no presence at all. He and Danse were alone in the shop. “Now isn’t this a puzzler.” </p><p> </p><p>He thought for a moment, recalling the state of the shop’s upper floors and the salvage within. “You know, here’s something else to consider. Why would a mechanic hide in an electronics shop?” </p><p> </p><p>“Isn’t it obvious?” Danse raised an eyebrow. “They would have access to plenty of salvage to build their hardware. Someone has clearly been scavenging from the machines upstairs.” </p><p> </p><p>“Exactly. It’s <em> obvious </em>.” Nick gestured around. “If I was trying to hide, I wouldn’t pick a hotspot for every scavver who can read. Even the Brotherhood had it on their list.”</p><p> </p><p>“I see...” </p><p> </p><p>“Hiding out here is like hiding under a pile of caps in the middle of Diamond City. You couldn’t stay covered long before someone came poking through. And if you’re hiding from the Institute, you damn well better pick somewhere less conspicuous.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse slowly nodded. He stared into the middle distance, looking thoughtful. “There were no defenses, either. No turrets, traps, or anything else to dissuade scavengers.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, that’s a good point.” </p><p> </p><p>“The first floor is full of reparable Protectrons and the parts to fix them.” Danse frowned. “If it were me, getting one online would be the first thing I’d do. They aren’t overly difficult to bypass, but would provide valuable forewarning in case of an intruder. Our alleged mechanic didn’t even bother.”</p><p> </p><p>“Given all that strangeness, I’m thinking this building’s a red herring,” said Nick. “No other doors leading out, right?” </p><p> </p><p>“Negative. No windows, either.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then it had to come down here. Check the walls and the floors for any sign of an exit. A trap door, a panel, anything like that.” </p><p> </p><p>They split up to comb through the basement. Nick started in the storage room, looking beneath the collapsed section of the floor, the shelves, anywhere else a synth might be able to fit. The crates were far too large to be moved, and there wasn’t any space for something human-sized to hide between or behind them. </p><p> </p><p>After that, he headed into the back office to check there. Paperwork, tool boxes with odds and ends inside, battered old desks, and a terminal full of 200 year-old workplace drama. Nothing else of interest. </p><p> </p><p>Well, great. Yet another to tally up in the Case of the Disappearing Synths. </p><p> </p><p>Nick was just starting to get frustrated when Danse called out from the other room. “Valentine. I may have found something.” </p><p> </p><p>He was standing in the workshop area, looking over a bare metal shelf resting against the wall. As Nick approached, he gestured to the shelf’s rear right vertical support. “I attempted to move this shelf, and noticed these wires running into the wall.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, good find,” said Nick. “Wires for what, though…” </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s see.” Danse traced the wall to the right, looking for any sort of mechanism that they might end at. Nick went in the opposite direction, searching downwards. </p><p> </p><p>All the way at the bottom, beneath the lowest shelf, a tiny hole had been drilled for the wires to emerge from the support. They connected to a metal switch screwed to the underside of the shelf. It would have been impossible to see it without lying on the ground, not a position that most prudent people would attempt anywhere in the wasteland.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Bingo </em>.” Nick flipped the switch. </p><p> </p><p>Something clicked. A latch released. A section of the wall that looked like a solid metal panel suddenly slid open, revealing a massive hole in the bare concrete wall. Inside the hole was a dusty utility crawlspace, with an open hatch on the ground. A ladder led down into the hatch. </p><p> </p><p>“Now <em> that’s </em>a hideout,” said Danse triumphantly. “Let’s see where it goes.” </p><p> </p><p>The hatch clearly wasn’t a part of the original architecture. Someone had dug out the hole for the ladder, and they hadn’t had great tools to work with-- it was barely wide enough for an adult person to fit through. Slender and skeletal Nick slipped down without much trouble, but Danse’s broad frame proved an issue. It took a little shifting and grunting for him to get through. Thankfully, Nick didn’t need to use a crowbar to assist. </p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, the space at the bottom of the ladder was much wider, and professionally constructed to boot: a dried-up sewer tunnel underneath the street. It had caved in a short distance behind the ladder, but in the other direction it extended a few hundred feet. Apart from a dim light at the far end of the tunnel, it was pitch-black. </p><p> </p><p>The source of the light was an electric flood-light, affixed inside a small alcove that held another ladder. Nick climbed the ladder, shimmied through another improvised tunnel, opened a hatch, and emerged in a residential basement. </p><p> </p><p>It was hard to tell if the basement was unfinished, or just in as miserable shape as 90% of wasteland architecture. Enough of the wooden studs were bare or rotted away that what had once been a handsome basement floor was now one big room, apart from a corner section with standing walls and a door. Tattered ugly wallpaper marked where walls had once separated out the rooms. There was a faint foul smell in the air, mixed with the mingled scents of ozone and electricity.</p><p> </p><p>There were signs of life throughout. A cot, a card table and a single chair, a workbench, sets of tools. A shelf of canned food and packaged water. A terminal, a radio playing the classical music station. Electronic parts and a variety of junk were scattered on the shelves and other surfaces. The synth lay obediently on a work table, still activated, its head cocked to one side and its cranial plates wide open. </p><p> </p><p>Most compellingly, there came the sound of footsteps on the wooden floors above. Someone was here. <em> Now </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Danse appeared beside Nick, having wriggled his way out of the tunnel, and he immediately snapped his head up at the noise. He put a finger to his lips to indicate silence, then moved toward the stairs. </p><p> </p><p>No sooner than he’d taken one step up, a tinny voice spoke loudly.</p><p> </p><p>“<b>Intruder alert. Unauthorized persons in the area.</b> ” The synth on the table sat up. “ <b>Defending subject Exile.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>Upstairs, the footsteps suddenly pounded away. Someone was running. </p><p> </p><p>“Damn it!” Danse instantly gave up on the stealth. He thundered up the stairs, slammed open the door at the top, and then his footsteps thudded across the upstairs floor. </p><p> </p><p>Meanwhile, Nick had every intention of following, until he found himself tackled by a tangle of metal limbs. The synth grabbed him in a clutch that would impress a jiu-jitsu expert, holding tight and aiming to choke him out. Too bad for the synth, Nick didn’t have a carotid artery.</p><p> </p><p>“<b>Eliminating intruders. Defending subject Exile.</b>”</p><p> </p><p>“Get the hell off me!” Nick shouted and stumbled as the synth did its best to take him down to the ground. </p><p> </p><p>God, Danse made it look easy, but these bastards <em> were </em>tough to wrestle. Nick slammed the synth back against the doorway again and again until its grip loosened. He snagged it by the arm and threw it over his shoulder. Something popped in his left elbow joints as he did (shit… he just got that damn thing replaced…) </p><p> </p><p>The synth hit the floor with a clatter, like a sack full of wrenches dropped on concrete. It let out a frazzled beeping noise and sprang up, lunging for him with an uncanny mechanical crawl. Nick backed up and drew his pistol, just in time for it to tackle him again. </p><p> </p><p>Flat on his back on the basement floor, Nick struggled to push his arm into position with the servos malfunctioning. The synth grabbed him by the head with the intention to slam his skull against the ground, but it was interrupted by the inconvenience of getting a revolver emptied into its torso. The synth fell back, sparks leaping from fresh bullet holes. Its eyes went dark, and it dropped. </p><p> </p><p>“Pain in the ass,” Nick muttered. He hoped to God he wouldn’t regret that soon.</p><p> </p><p>Footsteps rumbled back towards the basement entrance. The door at the top of the stairs flew open, and Danse peered down. “Valentine? I heard gunshots.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m all right,” he called back, twisting and testing his elbow. Still worked. He’d need to tighten that up when he got a chance. “Did they get away?” </p><p> </p><p>“Unfortunately, yes.” Danse scowled, shaking his head with what Nick interpreted to be irritation at himself. “The coward stealthed the minute they got out the front door. I didn’t see more than a flash of them.” </p><p> </p><p>“Damn.” It couldn’t be that easy, could it? Nick picked himself up off the floor. “Well, you did what you could.” </p><p> </p><p>“The lack of attempt to defend this location suggests they’re either unskilled in combat, or were caught completely off-guard.” </p><p> </p><p>“If I thought the Institute was going to be knocking on my door, I’d be ready to run at a moment’s notice too,” said Nick, heading up the stairs. </p><p> </p><p>The first floor of the house was utterly dark, all of the windows heavily boarded up. Dust hung thick in the stagnant air, and the place felt as lonely and imposing as a tomb. Most of the rooms were inaccessible thanks to a collapsed second floor, with only the kitchen, a living room, and the entryway still intact. </p><p> </p><p>“I suspect they assumed they would never be found here.” Danse gestured towards the door. “The exterior of this house has been camouflaged to look completely abandoned. Boarded-up windows, even concealing the door.”</p><p> </p><p>“Now this is what I call a hideout,” said Nick. “Secret tunnel. Shopping at your leisure. Come and go freely without being seen above ground. And a facade nobody would look twice at.”</p><p> </p><p>“How unfortunate for them that they’ve given us all the time in the world to investigate it.” Danse gave the closest thing Nick had ever seen to a smirk. “They must have left some evidence behind.” </p><p> </p><p>“Damn straight,” said Nick. “There’s gotta be something here.” At least, he goddamn prayed there was, since he’d just shot their only clue six times in the coolant pump. He really didn’t fancy trying again with the receiver stuck in his own head this time. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to perform a sweep. Stay on your guard until we’re certain there are no other defenses,” said Danse. “Then we’ll search every inch.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick half-descended the stairs to keep an eye on the basement while Danse surveyed what remained of the first floor. It was empty and abandoned as it first appeared. The living room held a small collection of junk and scrap, which the occupant had apparently been sorting through when they entered.</p><p> </p><p>Back in the basement, Nick stopped beside the fallen synth, sticking his fingers into the smashed gap in the back of its cranial plate. He plucked the receiver out and slipped it into his pocket, then he and Danse spread out to search. </p><p> </p><p>The door to the corner room was locked, so Nick started with the workbench. He recognized some components from the receiver chip-- circuit boards, wires, solder. A piece of torn paper even held a sketch of the receiver, with notes and calculations in fine, neat handwriting along the edges. </p><p> </p><p>There was also a wide variety of tools. Nick recognized most of their functions, but there were a few assembled in odd ways. A power drill with an electrical current wired through its bit.  A doctor’s otoscope with an improvised extra large lens. A disassembled stimpak with a razor blade in place of the needle. That last one in particular gave Nick a deeply uncomfortable feeling.</p><p> </p><p>“No radio equipment,” he said, trying to change his own train of thought. “Pieces of receivers, but nothing to broadcast to them.” </p><p> </p><p>“This building is unsuited for large-scale broadcasting. No transmission tower.” In the center of the room, Danse was sorting through the objects on the table. “They must have some other location from which they send out signals. There’s no shortage of old buildings with semi-functional broadcasting equipment that someone could utilize.” </p><p> </p><p>“That narrows things down at least a little bit,” said Nick. “You finding anything over there?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sketches.” Danse held up a few sheets of yellowed paper. “Mechanical diagrams. Poorly done, though, and incomplete… like someone drew them in a hurry.” </p><p> </p><p>“Can you tell what they are?” </p><p> </p><p>“Given the shapes and outlines? It looks like a synth. Gen-1 or 2.” Danse turned one of the drawings around to show Nick. “I recognize these pieces from earlier this evening.” </p><p> </p><p>“Interesting. Our mechanic must be a visual sort of person. Need to draw a diagram before they work,” Nick mused. “That, or they’re still reading the instructions for whatever they’re doing.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse set the papers down and eyed the locked corner room. “I’m deeply interested to see what’s in there.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll check the terminal,” said Nick. “Gimme a few.” </p><p> </p><p>The terminal was locked with some rather impressive encryption. One nice thing about being a synth was the ability to fight firewall with firewall, so to speak. There were angles to machine logic that would never naturally occur to a human mind, but if Nick concentrated, let his technical side take over for a few minutes, he could make out even the smallest paths around terminal security. </p><p> </p><p>E. X. E. </p><p> </p><p>“EXILE,” he muttered, and his fingers followed suit. The terminal chirped as the security came down. Thirty-three seconds. Pretty damn good, if he said so himself. </p><p> </p><p>There was a long list of entries recorded on the terminal. Some, dated within the past few months, seemed to be shorthand notes and entries about mechanical processes. Instructions? Then there were the entries that sounded like experimental research notes. </p><p> </p><p><em> “‘Reconfiguration of Subject E unsuccessful. Failure during correction of sec 3, 92-93A, 47% completion,’ </em> ” he read aloud. “‘ <em> Subject F, sec 6, 68% completion… </em>’ That make any sense to you?” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” said Danse. “Is that all that’s on there?” </p><p> </p><p>“There’s some shorter entries. Either a diary, or somebody’s trying to break into short-form poetry,” said Nick. “‘<em> They will take me back.’ ‘There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home, </em> about 47 times in a row. ‘ <em> I am not broken.’  ‘Delta-’ </em>”</p><p> </p><p>He stopped abruptly. “Er. That looks like a recall code. Best we don’t read that out loud.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse let out a soft huff. “Prudent.”</p><p> </p><p>Though looking at it again, the code wasn’t quite right. Delta 1-2-3. The Greek letter suggested a recall code, but Nick felt sorry as hell for the synth whose recall code was actually Delta 1-2-3. Placeholder numbers, perhaps? Was the code missing pieces? </p><p> </p><p>At the very bottom of the entries, he spotted a command to unlock the door to the corner room. “Ah, here we go. Let’s see what Mr. or Ms. ‘Exile’ took the time to lock up.” </p><p> </p><p>The maglocks thudded as they disengaged, and Danse reached for the handle. The moment he cracked the door open, the stench of dried blood and rotten flesh flooded the room. His eyes went wide, and he took a step back. “Dear <em> God </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick didn’t need to ask what he was looking at.</p><p> </p><p>Inside the corner room, a nude man lay dead, strapped to a hospital gurney. Some strange device was strapped over his head and face, a carapace helmet of plastic and wires. The room was outfitted like an amateur surgery center with work lights, medical instruments, empty chem syringes, and “diagrams”-- more crude anatomical sketches. Other papers littered the room, stained with splashes of rusty old blood. </p><p> </p><p>“Dead no more than three weeks.” Danse’s tone was cold, clinical-- the voice of a soldier who’d seen enough corpses to know better. “The bindings, the marks on the flesh. He was tortured.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick dreaded what he’d find with every fiber optic of his being, but he circled around the gurney to take a look at the victim’s head. It was about as he feared. The top of the skull had been cut away, and the strange device had been crudely wired up to the brain. </p><p> </p><p>“Brain’s been cut into,” he muttered. “Pieces missing. There’s some kind of… oh, Christ. He’s a synth.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse seemed to have spaced out as he stared at the body. He snapped out of it, blinking, turning to Nick. “How do you know?” </p><p> </p><p>“The only way you can,” Nick gestured to the dead man’s head. “The component in his brain. Take a look.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse circled around the gurney and did so. Nestled deep within the brain tissue was a strange component in a plastic casing. Several of the device’s “wires” had been amateurishly hooked into it. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got one of those knocking around in my head too,” said Nick. “We all do. But as far as I know, that little thing is the only physical difference between a gen-3 and a human.”</p><p> </p><p>He caught the first sign of falter in Danse’s soldierly calm-- the quick rise and fall of his chest. </p><p> </p><p>“Afraid he might be one of the Railroad’s missing packages.” Nick shook his head. “Poor guy. Takes a seriously sick son of a bitch to do something like this. What the hell kind of research...” </p><p> </p><p>“Given the state of this victim’s body, I doubt keeping him alive was a priority,” Danse muttered. “It wasn’t research. It was sadism.” </p><p> </p><p>There were more pieces of paper scattered around the “surgery” area, notes written in the same neat handwriting. One was tucked beneath the surgical tray, and Nick recognized it as a crude sketch of the device on the victim’s head. Blueprints? </p><p> </p><p>Something struck him as familiar about the device itself, too. A wide dome covering the head, components that stimulated the brain… </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve seen this type of thing before,” he said. “Bigger. A lot less crude, and a lot less fatal. I wonder if it’s meant to be a memory lounger.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse seemed unable to tear his eyes away from the victim now. “Such as they have at that... business in Goodneighbor.” He pronounced “business” in the same tone one uses to say a godawful blind date was “nice.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” said Nick. “Jesus. As if building a DIY brain-reader in your filthy basement is a fun weekend project.” </p><p> </p><p>But why would anyone <em> want </em>to? The loungers at the Memory Den were highly-advanced equipment, meticulously maintained and overseen by a doctor. Even the destitute drifters that called Goodneighbor home could afford the service with far less time and effort than the Exile had gone to. Hijacking synths, kidnapping gen-3s, performing amateur surgery… why would anyone ever be that desperate? </p><p> </p><p>There was only one person in the Commonwealth who might be able to shed some light into this dark basement, and this synth’s cruel death. “I wonder what Dr. Amari at the Memory Den would make of this.” </p><p> </p><p>“Do you know them?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yes. I know her well.” </p><p> </p><p>“Is she trustworthy?” </p><p> </p><p>“Enough to let her work between my ears. She’s the best neurologist in the Commonwealth, for human and synth brains alike.”</p><p> </p><p>“She sounds like a valuable source of information,” said Danse. “How did she end up in a filthy place like Goodneighbor?” </p><p> </p><p>“You can ask her, if you want,” said Nick. “Here, grab every paper you can find, and anything else that looks useful. No sense leaving it here.” </p><p> </p><p>It was a lead. A strong lead, even. But it still wasn’t the progress Nick was hoping they would make. He’d sincerely hoped they’d find Nora here, safe and sound. Instead, they’d found the gruesome indication they weren’t just dealing with a kidnapper-- but a murderer and a torturer. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Nora, doll, you’ve gotta be all right. Please be all right.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Nick stepped outside the surgery room to gather the other scattered papers. He thumped the pile into a neat stack, then circled back to check on Danse. “You got everything in there?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse stared at a piece of paper in his hand, his brows slowly knitting together. </p><p> </p><p>“Danse? What is it?” </p><p> </p><p>“It…” He gestured to the paper. “I… think it’s a list of… synth designations.” </p><p> </p><p>It was a list of letters and numbers, formatted like the four-digit codes the Institute used to label their creations. The numbers and letters all ran together, a fact that irritated Nick on a fundamental level (because of course it was easy to think of them as objects when they weren’t given recognizable names.) Seven were listed and crossed out at the top. Four more were written at the bottom under a subheading: “SEEN.” </p><p> </p><p>Only two of the designations stuck out. On the top half of the page, “R6-48” was crossed out with the others. The synth that had been kidnapped alongside Nora. The body on the gurney? He goddamn hoped not. (And if Danse was right about the body being three weeks dead, then it couldn’t be…) </p><p> </p><p>At the bottom, one of the “seen” designations had been circled. “M7-97.”</p><p> </p><p>“Looks like a goddamn hit list,” Nick grumbled. “Where the hell did they get all these?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s--” Danse said abruptly.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p>“M7-97. That was my designation.” He paused and took in a short breath. “That’s… me.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It was past midnight by the time they left the house. The night was moonless, and the sky was gloomy and gray behind a veil of clouds. The air hung thick with moisture, another storm threatening to brew. Literally and metaphorically, Nick noted.</p><p> </p><p>This time, the imposing silence between him and Danse had nothing to do with the two of them and everything to do with mutual dread. The agony of knowing enough to be afraid, but not knowing enough to be certain. Their suspect had blood on their hands, a cruel streak, and a demonstrated disregard for life. They were dealing with a genuine psycho, and it looked like Nora had ended up in this person’s clutches. The odds she was unharmed were getting dimmer, a fact Nick couldn’t deny no matter how desperately he tried to hold out hope for her. </p><p> </p><p>To make matters worse, their suspect apparently had their eyes on Danse. M7-97, his old designation. Information that a select few people should even know. Hell, even Danse himself barely knew it, but somebody else did well enough to identify him by sight. Enough to add him to their little “hit list,” circled with a bullet.</p><p> </p><p>Nick thought, but didn’t vocalize, that it was a damn good thing they were traveling together. If Danse really was a target, at least Nick could keep an extra pair of eyes out for him. Alone, he’d be far more vulnerable to getting snatched. </p><p> </p><p>Danse had clearly been perturbed by the news, but as usual, didn’t let it linger. Any of his thoughts on the matter were quickly sealed beneath his typical sternness, and he’d insisted they get moving as soon as possible. It would take several hours’ walk to reach Goodneighbor, and involve trekking back through the dangerous high-rises of downtown. </p><p> </p><p>There had been no discussion about the possibility of stopping for the night. But try as he might to hide it, Danse was waning. Exhaustion was starting to show in his stride, and the dark circles had returned under his eyes. He had downed a bottle of water, but taken no other pains to care for himself since they’d left the Railroad’s company earlier that evening. At least, not where Nick could see him do it.  </p><p> </p><p>They passed by the remains of a motel, and Nick finally chose to say something. “We should probably find somewhere to camp overnight.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine,” Danse replied immediately. </p><p> </p><p>“You sure?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. I’m sure. I’ll look after my own condition, thank you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not positive that you will,” said Nick. “You’ve been drugged and run ragged all night. I think we ought to give you a break until daylight, at least.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse looked back at him, the full weight of his exhaustion clearly visible in his expression. “We don’t have time to waste.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not ‘wasting time,’” said Nick. “It’s taking care of yourself. You’re not a machine.” </p><p> </p><p>He honestly didn’t think twice about it before it slipped out. But boy, was that the wrong way to put it. </p><p> </p><p>Danse turned on him, eyes narrowed, the thin patience he’d been stretching all night finally getting a big, ugly rip in it. “The hell I’m not,” he snarled. “Why don’t we both stop putting on this charade? I’m not human. I don’t need to sleep. There’s nothing but programming telling me otherwise. Let’s cast aside this delusion that I’m any less mechanical than you are.” </p><p> </p><p>Oh, for God’s sake. </p><p> </p><p>“As much as I’d love to argue boneheaded generalizations with you, let’s try to keep things in perspective, okay?” Nick muttered. “I know tonight’s been a lot, and you could use a chance to wind down. You look like hell.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse grit his teeth. “I don’t need your pity, Valentine.” </p><p> </p><p>The day was rough. The situation was dire. There was no doubt Danse was tired and hangry, and feeling however he felt about being a potential target for a murderer. But Nick was pretty much done getting painted with an uncharitable brush when he hadn’t done a damn thing to deserve it. </p><p> </p><p>“Blow it out your ass,” Nick snapped. “Basic decency isn’t pity, and whoever taught you otherwise can go kick a deathclaw nest. I’m asking for your sake.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse grit his teeth a little harder. “And as I said, I can take care of myself.” </p><p> </p><p>“Then do it, and quit getting snippy with me.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not going to sit idle while Nora’s life hangs in the balance.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, a hell of a lot of good you’ll do her if you’re so groggy you get yourself dead.” </p><p> </p><p>If looks could kill, Nick would be the dead one. Danse looked like he was holding back a whole torrent of vicious rebuttals, but they stayed locked up tight behind his thinly-pressed lips. </p><p> </p><p>A low roll of thunder rumbled in the distance. </p><p> </p><p>At last, Danse let out a harsh exhale and turned away. He marched towards the abandoned motel, and Nick followed. </p><p> </p><p>They were clearly not the only people who’d gotten the idea to use a wrecked motel for shelter. There were signs of recent occupation, and several of the doors on the intact bottom floor were locked tight. Drifters, junkies, scavvers, whoever; no need to disturb them. Live and let live. </p><p> </p><p>Finding an open room at the end of the hall, Nick locked the door and pushed some busted furniture against it for security. The room was in decent repair (relative to the wasteland) with an intact queen-sized mattress and a worn-out sofa in front of a broken television. </p><p> </p><p>Danse dropped his pack on the mattress and stood there a moment, staring at it. He turned to look at Nick with some type of wary discomfort. </p><p> </p><p>Given the way that Danse had tossed and turned and barely slept last night at County Crossing, Nick had a decent guess what the concern was. “I’m gonna lay up on this couch and mind my own business.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse sighed and gave a curt nod. He began quietly situating himself on the bed. Nick heard the soft rustling as he ate something out of his pack, downed a bottle of water, then lay down to finally get some sleep. </p><p> </p><p>Meanwhile, Nick reclined on the couch, tilted slightly to face away from the bed. He lit a cigarette, held it to waft the smoke out the broken window behind him, and settled in. </p><p> </p><p>Having an internal clock meant he was always faintly cognizant of the time, but he’d learned long ago how to “drift off.” Similar to the way he let his mechanical brain take over while hacking, he could lose himself in processes and let his “mind” wander. The synth equivalent of a daydream, perhaps.  It came in handy when he didn’t really sleep, and often found himself waiting for other people to do so. </p><p> </p><p>Often during these moments he'd get one of his “flashes.” The memories of the real Nick Valentine surfacing from somewhere in the depths of his brain. Sometimes they were merely flickers, sensations, small images. Other times he got a full blown scene, experiencing the highs and lows of a man’s life as though it was his own. </p><p> </p><p>Just flashes tonight. Cold rain on his face. The scent of lilacs. Stoplights reflected in puddles. The rustle of an umbrella. The taste of her lipstick.</p><p> </p><p>Nick hastily pushed that aside, turning his thoughts back to the case at hand. </p><p> </p><p>Exile. An alias. Mechanical genius, callous and cruel. An obsession with synths. Targeted synths. Drew diagrams of their workings. Experimented with them. Hijacked the old ones. Tortured and murdered the new ones.</p><p> </p><p><em> They will take me back. I am not broken. There’s no place like home. </em> </p><p> </p><p>It was tempting to draw a line towards the Institute, with statements like that. But it was an all-too common mistake to attribute <em> everything </em>to the Institute. There were plenty of garden-variety nutjobs in the Commonwealth, plenty of freaks who could turn to mutilating victims for whatever their disgusting cause.  The Covenant incident was still fresh in his mind, a group of traumatized people convinced that there was such a thing as “acceptable losses.” Humans, synths, who cared? They were people. It didn’t goddamn matter. </p><p> </p><p>He could feel himself getting riled up the more he thought about it, the more he thought about Nora. Was there any possible way she could still be safe? Any time in the custody of a sicko like this was too long. Two weeks… </p><p> </p><p>Real nice of the Institute to program their AI to feel anxiety, by the way. Even more vicious than programming them to feel pain. </p><p> </p><p>Across the room the mattress creaked, bringing Nick back to the present. His cigarette had long burned out between his fingers, and several hours had passed in a blur. He rose enough to look behind the couch.</p><p> </p><p>Danse sat on the edge of the mattress, stripped down to boxers and a black tank. He let his head hang, rubbing his eyes as though a headache was coming on. If possible, he looked even more miserable than he had when he’d gone to bed. </p><p> </p><p>He glanced briefly in Nick’s direction. They made eye contact, removing each other’s ability to ignore one another. </p><p> </p><p>All the same, Nick kept his voice low enough that Danse could reasonably pretend he didn’t hear it. “Can’t sleep?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” Danse massaged his temples with his fingertips. “It’s nothing new.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick remembered clearly the first time he’d met Danse. A humorless brute clad head to toe in power armor, his scowling face the only indication that there was a man beneath all that metal. It was an excellent first impression of him as a whole. The ex-Paladin kept himself closed off from the world, literally and metaphorically encased in cold, hard steel. He’d spent so long inside it, so long acting the part of the perfect soldier, he’d made everyone believe he was invulnerable, unbreakable. Danse even believed it himself. </p><p> </p><p>But Nick had seen it in the past few days. He could see it now in the man’s expression, the tension in his shoulders, the trembling in his hands. Danse was bleeding. And no matter how desperately he tried to pretend otherwise, he’d been bleeding for a long time. </p><p> </p><p>Danse took a slow, deep breath. “I’m sorry for being irritable earlier,” he said, with some hesitance. “It was uncalled for.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not a problem.” </p><p> </p><p>“It is a problem. You were correct. I can’t fight at peak efficiency if I don’t keep up with basic needs.” </p><p> </p><p>“I understand.” Nick paused a moment, and considered his phrasing. “That is- it’s forgiven. We had a hell of a day.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s an understatement.” Danse shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair.</p><p> </p><p>Something was clearly wrong. Nick weighed his options. If it was anybody else, he’d feel less awkward asking after him. But Danse wasn’t the type of guy who would appreciate being called out on his weakness. All he could really do is open a door and invite him to step through it. </p><p> </p><p>“You know, part of the basic needs…” Nick began, before deciding that sounded like a lecture. “Eh. Never mind. The point is, that offer I made before still stands.” </p><p> </p><p>“Which offer?” </p><p> </p><p>“If you need to talk. Get something off your mind.”  </p><p> </p><p>Danse glanced at him, giving him a long and searching look. Jeez, no wonder he kept up the constant stoicism. Those big brown puppy eyes were soft and expressive to the point of weaponization. “You keep saying that. You actually mean it, don’t you?” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, yeah.” Nick frowned. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sincere.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. I’m starting to realize that you really are that decent.” Danse made something that might have been a chuckle, if it hadn’t been a bitter scoff. “You would listen, without judgment?” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” </p><p> </p><p>He seemed to think about it for a moment. “I’ll be honest,” he said, as though he had ever been anything but painfully honest in every interaction Nick ever had with him, “I’m not-- good at these things, I’m unskilled at expressing my thoughts with grace or tact. Especially given this is a difficult topic for me. If you could please give me the chance to speak, to sort things out verbally...” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, Danse. You’ve got it.”</p><p> </p><p>It took Danse another moment to truly take him up on it, though. He spent a silent minute thinking, his eyebrows fretfully illustrating his struggle to find a place to begin. And when he found a place, it wasn’t where Nick expected it would be. </p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t know she was working for the Railroad either.” It wasn’t a question. </p><p> </p><p>“No. I didn’t.” Genuinely, he’d had no idea. Nora had been distant since her recent troubles with the Brotherhood, enough to make Nick worry, but not enough to suspect she was moonlighting with the secretive Railroad. </p><p> </p><p>“I have to admit, after the initial shock I wasn’t surprised. She’s always been the type. Soft. Stubborn. Borderline insubordinate.” There was no heat or disdain in his tone. “And kind. Over everything else. She’s too damn kind. </p><p> </p><p>“I think about her working with the Railroad. Protecting some helpless synth. I think about her getting attacked, and dragged away. I think about some sick son of a bitch having her in their grasp. Hurting her. Seeing that body--” He shook his head. “For a moment I was terrified. If it had been her… if anything’s happened to her, I don’t know what I’ll do. I will never forgive myself for not being there with her.” </p><p> </p><p><em>Ditto </em>. Weird experience, hearing the grouchy soldier express Nick’s own feelings back to him. </p><p> </p><p>“I understand that it isn’t truly my fault, or the Railroad’s fault, or even her fault. This is on the head of the bastard who took her. But I can’t shake the feeling that I pushed her into this. That she did it because of me, and what happened to me. And she couldn’t tell me her intentions because she knew how I would react. With anger, and disgust, and hatred. She knew I would tell her she was supporting fanatics, and putting her life on the line for machines. Soulless, godless, unnatural machines.” Danse swallowed. “Like me.” </p><p> </p><p>He stood up, slowly pacing. “I’ve had a picture in my head for years, of what a synth is. What a synth does. What it looks like, how it acts, and what makes it so fundamentally different from a human. But I’ve come to realize that picture, all of my impressions, everything we were told-- it doesn’t match reality. Those women with the Railroad. Even you, Valentine-- you don’t match anything I’ve ever believed. Anything I’ve ever been taught.</p><p> </p><p>“You would think, then, that I could accept it. That I could rationally understand how a synth could feel and think the same way that I do. You would think it should be simple for me to empathize with them, and not to feel angry, and disgusted, and hateful. But it isn’t simple.” </p><p> </p><p>He went quiet, looking at Nick for some kind of response. </p><p> </p><p>“Go on,” he said. “I’m listening.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse hesitated before doing so. “I’m sure you have also noticed the discrepancy here. How strange it is that a person who targets synths would kidnap a human woman.” </p><p> </p><p>As a matter of fact, he had. And he was suddenly deeply unsure if he could keep his promise not to be judgmental. “Yes. I did notice that.” </p><p> </p><p>“So then you’ve also considered what that might mean,” said Danse. “That Nora could be a synth. That this person somehow knew that, and took her because of it.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s a big ‘might,’ Danse,” said Nick. “We hardly know anything solid about the guy or his motives. There’s no sense getting worked up over a what-if.” </p><p> </p><p>“What would you think if it was true?” he asked. </p><p> </p><p>“What does this have to do with anything?” </p><p> </p><p>“Just answer me. What would you think if Nora turned out to be a synth?” </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing,” said Nick. “It wouldn’t make a lick of difference to me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course it wouldn’t... Of course.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick raised an eyebrow. “What point are you trying to make here? I don’t give a damn what Nora is. She’s my friend. I don’t care if she’s a human, a synth, or a goddamn good-looking ghoul. People are people. It doesn’t matter what they are.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse watched him for an uncomfortably long moment. He let out a long, shaky breath. “Believe it or not, that concept isn’t hard for me to grasp. I’ve heard it again and again. I understand the sentiment. But I can’t…” </p><p> </p><p>He swallowed. “I honestly don’t know if I’m capable of believing it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why not?” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not that hard,” said Nick. “Humans think, and feel, and want, and need, and make their own decisions. So do synths. They’re all people. Who cares how they were born or made or built? Does it matter?” </p><p> </p><p>That, surprisingly, was the question that sent Danse into a spiral. He whirled on Nick, his eyes narrowing, his voice going cold. “Of course it does!”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?” </p><p> </p><p>“Because it <em> has </em>to matter.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why?” Nick challenged. “Because Maxson told you it did?” </p><p> </p><p>“Because <em> I would have killed her </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>It hit like a stone dropping through the surface of a frozen lake, sharp and cold. </p><p> </p><p>“I would have killed her. If our situations were reversed, if I was ordered to hunt her down? I’d have done it without question. The sweetest, warmest woman I’ve ever met, one of the closest friends I’ve ever had. I’d have executed her because of what she is. If I know I would have done something so heinous? It has to matter.” </p><p> </p><p>His breath quickened, emotion shaking in the back of his throat. “If it didn’t matter, then my brothers and sisters wouldn’t have turned on me. Dishonored me, humiliated me, stripped away my very existence. If it didn’t matter, then I wouldn’t feel like my identity has been stolen from me. Like my name, my memories, even my body aren’t really mine.</p><p> </p><p>“I would know,” he hissed, his voice breaking mid-sentence, “why it’s somehow better she didn’t shoot me that day. Why I shouldn’t do it myself, right now.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse turned abruptly away, slamming his fist against the wall, then slowly leaning as though he could no longer stand without support.</p><p> </p><p>"I understand the damn concept. I <em> understand </em>that being human shouldn’t make a difference. That woman, getting her mind wiped. That victim in the cell. I felt for them. I’m mourning their losses, even though they’re synths. I can accept that truth for them, or you, or even Nora. But myself? </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve heard over and over again that it doesn’t change who I am. That I’m still the same person. But in my own head, in my own heart, there is something <em> wrong </em> with me. Something incongruous, and unnatural. Every cell in my body, every thought, every moment I’m alive--  they’re <em> wrong </em>. There is something festering inside me, something that I can’t get rid of. It hates me for what I am, and it hates every other synth for not understanding why they deserve it too.” </p><p> </p><p>He drifted off, his heavy breaths the only sound in the room. </p><p> </p><p>“The worst part about it,” he muttered, “is just as you said last night. No one can help me. Not Nora, not you, not the Brotherhood or the Railroad or anyone else. No one can <em> make </em>it make sense. These hateful feelings are mine alone, and I have to come to terms with them alone. I’ll either sort them out and find even the smallest bit of peace, or they’ll destroy me. I’ve done nothing but fight with myself since the day I found out the truth. And no matter how tired I am, my only options are to keep fighting… or to give up.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse sat down on the edge of the bed again, facing the wall. He covered his eyes with his hand and lowered his head. “Being a synth… shouldn’t matter. But it <em> does </em>. And it’s goddamn killing me.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick was silent a long time, letting the words roll over him. It had been only two months since Danse had his whole world ripped out from under him. Being outed as a synth had lost him his career, his pride, his sense of self, his friends, and the only family he’d ever known. He was struggling, and anger and hate were the only coping tools the Brotherhood equipped him with before they cast him aside. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t about Nora being a synth. It wasn’t about synths at all. It was about a man exhausted and drowning in the enormity of his pain. A man lost in darkness so deep he couldn’t see any way forward.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re right,” Nick said softly. “It does matter. It shouldn’t, in a perfect world. And you’re right that nobody else can make it make sense for you. But you’re not alone.” </p><p> </p><p>He settled back on the couch to give Danse the dignity of not being stared at. “Maybe you’ve got to find your own way through it, but you can lean on others in the meantime. When you’re tired. When you need a friendly voice or a friendly word. Hell, if you need somebody to tell you a reason to stay alive. They can’t win this battle for you. But they can fight by your side.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick paused a moment, considering. “Maybe it’d help you to hear… you’re not the only one who’s ever walked this path. It’s not exactly the same situation, but I know what it feels like to wake up one day and realize that everything that’s you isn’t yours.” </p><p> </p><p>“Do you?” Danse’s voice was still soft and thick with emotion. There was the slightest trace of hope in the question. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. My mind belongs to a prewar cop.” Nick drew another cigarette out of his pocket. “My thoughts, my memories, my feelings, even my goddamn name. Everything that makes me me. It’s all his. That’s the only reason I’m not like the other gen-2s, another brainless bot running errands and kidnapping people. Because some Institute egghead imprinted a man’s brain onto a hard drive, and stuck it in my skull.</p><p> </p><p>“I remember things that have never happened to me, and places I’ve never been. I remember getting my brain scanned at CIT, and the next thing I know I’m waking up in a scrapheap. Figuratively and literally. I’m trapped in this body in a world that doesn’t make any damn sense to me, and I slowly realize that there is no ‘me.’ Just some copied memories on a rickety old synth.” </p><p> </p><p>He flicked a flame in a finger, lighting his cigarette. “It’s taken a long time for me to find any kind of balance. To know even vaguely where Nick Valentine ends and I begin, and even to know if that matters. It does. No matter how much it shouldn’t matter, or how many people tell me it doesn’t… it does. Not understanding who or what you are… it tears you the hell apart.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse was quiet, seemingly taking it all in. “It must have been difficult. Adjusting to the world post-war. In a mechanical body, in addition to everything else.” </p><p> </p><p>“It was,” said Nick. “I-- Nick-- could hardly jumpstart his car back then. Learning how to do it to myself… blew out more than a few parts that way.” </p><p> </p><p>He heard what he faintly suspected was a very brief chuckle from Danse.</p><p> </p><p>“It took a long time, and I’m still not there myself, to be honest. But I’m closer. No matter how hopeless it seems, no matter how dark the night, it won’t last forever. You’ve gotta keep taking it one step at a time.” </p><p> </p><p>After a long and weighty silence the soldier spoke, soft and solemn. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I’m sorry for your struggles.” </p><p> </p><p>“And I’m sorry for yours.” Nick made the synth equivalent of a sigh. “Wish I could tell you I knew how to make it easier. I don’t. But I can tell you one thing I have learned. Or at least, I think I’ve learned.” </p><p> </p><p>“Please do.” </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t control what I am. What I was made to be. I can’t become anything else but a human mind in a synth body. But I can strive every day to <em> be </em>more than that. By doing what I can. By doing what’s right.” </p><p> </p><p>The mattress creaked again, very slightly. </p><p> </p><p>“I feel as though I’ve done nothing but think for the past fifty-four days,” said Danse. “But you’ve given me yet more to consider. From a perspective I believe I needed to hear.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” said Nick. “I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass, either. If there’s anything I can do to help, I want to.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you. I don’t have any idea what will help. I don’t know if anything really can.” He let out a long, slow breath. “But the offer… your willingness to listen. It means a lot to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve never had many people concerned with me beyond my capacity as a soldier.” Danse closed his eyes. “That anyone would find worth in me beyond that is still... unusual.” </p><p> </p><p>“I wish I knew why.” Nick took a long drag on his cigarette. “You’re a good man, Danse. I think the world’s better off with a second chance at having you in it.” </p><p> </p><p>He heard Danse take in a sharp breath, as though the remark had winded him. There was a long and pregnant pause, and at last he spoke.</p><p> </p><p>“You know, Nora is always talking you up. Always going on and on about you. I never believed her before, for… various reasons.” There was a shocking amount of warmth in his tone, self-deprecation at the last bit. “But I’m learning quickly how wrong I was. You are… an exceptionally valiant person.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Person. </em>Thank God he couldn’t blush. “Thanks, Danse.”</p><p> </p><p>“I truly appreciate the respect and kindness you’ve given me. I only hope I can return it someday.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure you will,” he said. “Nora’s got plenty of sweet nothings to say about you, too.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s a high compliment, coming from her.” </p><p> </p><p>They both drifted off into silence. Nick tried not to let the solemnity get to him.</p><p> </p><p>“We’ve a few more hours until daylight,” said Danse. The mattress creaked heavily, the sound of him reclining again. “I’m going to get what sleep I can. Or try, at least. I’ll be ready to leave by sunrise.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sweet dreams.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll do my best. Good night, Valentine.” </p><p> </p><p>Smoke wafted from the end of Nick’s cigarette, circling in a spiral up towards the ceiling before the draft pulled it out the window. Through the grimy, broken panes of glass, he could faintly hear raindrops falling outside.</p><p> </p><p>But against all odds, Nick felt it. A hunch, a gut feeling, detective’s intuition, whatever it was, it told him that they were getting closer. That there were answers in Goodneighbor, and they were on their way to find them. </p><p> </p><p>The night had never looked darker. Pitch black, and cold as hell. But he wasn’t alone. He had a soldier fighting at his side. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Confession: the heart-to-heart between Nick and Danse was really the scene I wanted to write this entire fic for. I ended up getting a lot more ideas for context and a plot to go around it, but it was the conversation we were all wishing they could have in the game, or at least allude to having. </p><p>I actually came up with the fic title because Jimi Hendrix came on while I was brainstorming and I thought "oh that's a cool title!" even before I actually knew what was going to happen here. But in a stroke of luck, the conversation between the Joker and the Thief actually fits pretty well thematically. </p><p>It's probably good I didn't hear Ginuwine's "Pony" that day. </p><p>Next chapter: Danse's first kiss, Goodneighbor, and a visit with the Doc.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Another Little Piece Of My Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Danse's first kiss, the streets of Goodneighbor, and a visit with the doc.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After the nuclear readjustment of the planet’s climate, the required combination of conditions became unusual enough that it rarely ever snowed in the Commonwealth. On especially cold days like this, though, it sometimes got close; rain so heavy it was almost solid, icy slush pounding against the ramshackle rooftops.</p><p> </p><p>Knight Carter told Danse that back in her time, the whole eastern seaboard was at the mercy of winter for a quarter of the year. Blizzards, “nor’easters,” great storms that coated the world in snow and ice until spring. It sounded like something out of the silly children’s fantasy stories the Brotherhood used to teach their wastelander recruits to read. (Danse had been so excited to improve his meager reading skills that he didn’t pay much attention to the content at the time. He was still proud of the day he realized how thoroughly ridiculous those stories were.)</p><p> </p><p>“I used to like winter. Especially around Christmas. Ice skating, sledding, hot drinks by the fire,” she said. “But December 26th, I was over it. I can’t say I miss the rest of the Boston winters.” </p><p> </p><p>“That does sound charmingly nostalgic.” Danse looked out the window, watching the sleet fall in the dark. “Not for months on end, though. This kind of cold is miserable enough in the short-term.”</p><p> </p><p>From the couch, Dogmeat let out a soft whine, as though agreeing to the sentiment.</p><p> </p><p>They were holed up in an abandoned cabin for the night, aiming to wait out the storm. Though the dwelling was in disrepair and initially so drafty it seemed utterly useless, lighting the wood stove had warmed the place nicely. Now the ambience was downright cozy. The scent of fried Cram and corn still lingered in the air under the aroma of wood smoke. Two lanterns and the fireplace lit the room, shadowing the two suits of power armor silently guarding the door.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s getting nasty out there.” Nora’s face glowed warm in the firelight. She was occupied petting the German Shepherd luxuriously stretched out across her lap. Dogmeat lay on his back, belly exposed, panting and wagging his tail and generally making a production of himself. “I’m glad we stopped when we did.” </p><p> </p><p>“Rain on power armor is bad enough. It’s even worse when your helmet fogs up.” Danse cleaned up the remnants of their dinner, washing their mess kits with a spare bottle of water, then drying them with a utility cloth. “There should be enough wood to last the night. We’ll stay rather comfortable.”</p><p> </p><p>“I can hardly wait. I’m exhausted.” </p><p> </p><p>“You worked hard today. You can take the couch.” </p><p> </p><p>“And what about you?” Nora lifted her eyebrows. “Won’t you be cold on the floor?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve slept in colder.” He gestured at the couch. “I insist.” </p><p> </p><p>“What a gentleman.” She smiled back. “You know though, I think this is one of those daybeds.” </p><p> </p><p>“Daybed?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, this type of couch... The frame flattens out and the cushions make a mattress. There’s enough room for both of us.” </p><p> </p><p>“Clever,” Danse mused. “Then I’ll happily take you up on that.” </p><p> </p><p>The corner of her mouth rose in a cheeky little grin. “We could even zip the sleeping bags together.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good thinking. Utilizing shared body heat is a practical idea in these conditions.”</p><p> </p><p>Nora gave him a funny look then, as though searching for some deeper meaning behind that remark. When she didn’t seem to find it, she smirked and went back to lavishing attention on the dog. </p><p> </p><p>Danse packed up the mess kits and tucked Nora’s into her bag, alongside the scraps of tech they’d scavenged from a hospital that day. The last of the components on Proctor Ingram’s list. Tomorrow, they’d return to the airport and deliver them, and Ingram would finish up her interpretation of the molecular relay. Elder Maxson had been very specific that the moment the relay was complete, they’d be sending Knight Carter in. They couldn’t risk the Institute discovering the signal interceptor and abruptly shifting their configuration, making the whole endeavor useless.</p><p> </p><p>So tomorrow or the day after, at the latest, Knight Carter would become its first test subject. The first person to teleport into the Institute, or attempt to, at least. </p><p> </p><p>Danse would never say so out loud, but he had several reservations. This whole plan hinged on the decaying intellect of a defected Institute scientist-turned-mutie freak. The relay was far beyond any level of technology the Brotherhood had ever studied. They had no idea how it would function, what it would do in the process, or how the Institute would respond to a sudden intruder.</p><p> </p><p>Worst of all, compounding all of these uncertainties, they were sending in his Knight. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t that he doubted her. Knight Nora Carter was immensely capable, smart, adaptable to any situation he’d ever encountered with her. Elder Maxson had every faith she would be able to handle herself and return unscathed, no matter what she faced within the Institute.</p><p> </p><p>But Danse imagined there would be an extreme amount of resistance leveled at her. She’d be going in blind and alone with no backup, communication, or known avenue of retreat. For all she was strong and capable, she was also only human.</p><p> </p><p>The Paladin knew he came off as strict and detached. Others mocked his stern, all-business personality. Scribe Haylen constantly teased him for being cold, and he was well aware of the numerous “robot” jokes at his expense. But Danse knew no matter how hard he seemed on the outside, those who served under him quickly found his concern transparent. He cared deeply for his soldiers and hated the idea of sending one into such danger when he couldn’t be there to protect her. If there was any way he could go in with her, go instead of her, he’d do it in a heartbeat. </p><p> </p><p>Danse envisioned stepping out of the relay, power armor shining, mowing down legions of synth bastards with his laser. He’d bring the hellfire of the surface right into the heart of the Institute, punish them for their hubris and their deadly attempts to play god. He’d fight his way into the depths of their operation and deliver a killing strike, vengeance for all the suffering they’d caused over the years. </p><p> </p><p>And before he left the Institute a smoking crater on the Commonwealth’s backside, he’d find Nora’s little boy, let him sit on his shoulder, and fight his way back out. (It would be exceptionally dangerous to lift the child into the line of fire like that, but this was an exaggerated mental image for dramatic effect.) Then triumphantly, Paladin Danse would reappear on the other side and return Shaun Carter to the loving arms of his mother, where he belonged. <em> Ad victoriam.  </em></p><p> </p><p>It was a comforting fantasy, but only a fantasy. Knight Carter deserved to be the one to bring the first pain, strike the first blow against the bastards who ruined her life. He would never take her moment of glory away. For all his righteous fury at the Institute, it couldn’t compare to the fury of a mother whose child was stolen from her. </p><p> </p><p>(He wondered, sometimes, if his own mother or father had put up a fight for him. If they would have gone the lengths for him that Nora went for her son. If they’d done their best, but succumbed to the deadly horrors of the wasteland like so many others. He liked to think so. It was better than thinking he’d been abandoned, discarded like the scrap he used to survive on.) </p><p> </p><p>With the cleaning finished, Danse unbuckled the top of his uniform, drawing the zipper to his waist where he could shrug it off and expose the plain gray T-shirt beneath. It was warm enough in the cabin to dress down a little, and he felt content enough to relax. He sat on the left side of the daybed beside Nora. Dogmeat, sensing a new lap to occupy, stretched his long body longer for double the attention. </p><p> </p><p>“What a shameless animal,” Danse teased, rubbing the dog’s furry chin with one hand and his belly with the other. “Not even a scrap of dignity.” </p><p> </p><p>“None whatsoever,” Nora agreed. “Especially not when there’s tummy rubs to be had.” </p><p> </p><p>Dogmeat let out a high pitched whine of acknowledgement, happily accepting the criticism in exchange for more affection. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you think you can keep an eye on him while I’m gone?” she asked. “I’m sure he’ll wander back towards Sanctuary eventually, but I want to make sure somebody feeds him first.” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” said Danse. “Maybe he’d prefer to stay on The Prydwen with me until you return.” </p><p> </p><p>“They’d allow a dog up there?” </p><p> </p><p>“He’d be a minor celebrity. Most everyone would be thrilled for the company of such a handsome dog,” Danse assured her. “Proctor Quinlan will complain, but he’ll be outvoted. So long as Dogmeat minds his manners with Emmett.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, he loves cats. At worst he might cuddle him too much.” </p><p> </p><p>“Something to think about, then, boy.” Danse ruffled Dogmeat’s ears affectionately. “You’d be closer when she comes back.” </p><p> </p><p><em> When </em>she comes back. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s surreal, isn’t it? Thinking I’m going to teleport tomorrow. That I’ll see Shaun, tomorrow.” </p><p> </p><p>“I can only imagine how you must feel.” </p><p> </p><p>“Excited. And nervous,” she admitted. “There’s no telling what they’ll have told him about me, all these years. I hope I don’t frighten him. That he wants to come with me, when I come back.” </p><p> </p><p><em> When </em>. </p><p> </p><p>She, too, had adopted the unspoken agreement to speak of the venture in optimistic terms. There were a thousand things that could go wrong between here or there, but it seemed only polite not to acknowledge them. Everything would go according to plan when she made it into the Institute. When she found her son. When she came back unharmed. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Danse considered a moment, if he should allow himself to be open with his concerns. If he should risk upsetting her or adding to the more pressing worries plaguing her. He might make it worse. But he might not have another chance to say these things.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you mind if we speak… off the record again, Knight?” </p><p> </p><p>She glanced at him, cracking a smile. “Suits are off, Paladin. I was under the impression this was all off the record.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s the rule, is it?” he asked wryly. </p><p> </p><p>“It is now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Very well, Knight.” </p><p> </p><p>“That also means you can call me Nora, for heaven’s sake.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” The slightest bit of heat rose in his face. “May I?” </p><p> </p><p>“Please do.” </p><p> </p><p>“Very well then. Nora.” Saying her name sans title still felt like saying a secret out loud. “I wanted you to know… I am sincerely hoping for your success with the relay. I’m praying your mission goes safely.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you. So am I.” Nora sighed. “Somewhere, deep down. I can admit I’m… terrified. But I barely feel it.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve grown a lot as a soldier. Swallowing your fear and acting in the face of danger is the definition of courage.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not thinking of it in terms of courage,” she admitted. “It’s more like… I’m so close to finding him that nothing else matters. Not my safety, or our mission… all I want is to find my baby boy.” </p><p> </p><p>She glanced away suddenly, her expression twisting as though she said something wrong. “I’m-- not to say I don’t care about our mission, Paladin…” </p><p> </p><p>“I understand.” Danse stretched his arm along the cushion to more comfortably face her. “You joined the Brotherhood hoping we could help find your son. It’s only expected he is your first priority.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Good.” Nora exhaled a little. “I’ve been… worried about how the others might take that.” </p><p> </p><p>“Honestly, it’s not a sentiment many would tolerate. So many of us don’t have anything or anyone to compare.” Danse leaned back against the cushion, gazing up at the ceiling. “When the Brotherhood is your whole world, it becomes easy to forget there’s anything outside of it. Anything that could possibly be as important.”</p><p> </p><p>He cracked a self-deprecating smirk. “I can admit… I’m prone to forgetting that myself. But working in the field provides perspective you can’t get in the Citadel or on The Prydwen. Traveling with you has been exceptionally helpful in that regard.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m glad.” Nora leaned her head back to look at him. “I can’t say I would have reacted well to a lecture about putting my son ahead of the Brotherhood.”</p><p> </p><p>“No. Perhaps when we first met, I’m sorry to say. But given all we’ve been through together, I understand where you’re coming from.” Danse gave his best reassuring smile. “Besides, I haven’t had to lecture you about anything in a long time.” </p><p> </p><p>“Are you starting to miss it?” she teased. </p><p> </p><p>“Not a bit.” He chuckled under his breath. “Despite what some may claim, I don’t enjoy delivering lectures.” </p><p> </p><p>“Haylen told me it was your favorite hobby.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course she did. Right behind fixing things and scowling.” </p><p> </p><p>It felt good to be able to joke with her. It was nice to feel like they were two friends, not merely sponsor and subordinate. Things like that made Danse all the happier he’d taken a chance on her, had the opportunity to spend so much time with her. At the same time, it tightened the knot of anxiety inside him, made him dread the prospect of sending her into danger. </p><p> </p><p>“Kni- Nora. If you don’t mind… there’s something further I’d like to add.” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t intend to lay a guilt trip on you, or to discourage you. The last thing I want is to burden you with my feelings. But I want you to know I worry for your safety. Not only as your commanding officer, but… more than that.”</p><p> </p><p>“More than that?” Nora lifted an eyebrow. “That’s high praise, coming from you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I want to make sure you understand what I mean.” He looked her in the eye and let out a brief exhale. “It’s been a long time since I felt comfortable getting close to someone. After Cutler, I feared that growing bonds beyond camaraderie, beyond my responsibility as Paladin was asking for heartache. Opening myself to being hurt again. For some time, I was extremely worried about the way I felt about you. But you’ve taught me something important over the months we’ve been working together.</p><p> </p><p>“Feeling close to someone can be painful, but it’s more importantly a strength. It gives me something to fight for, even harder than before. Makes me a better warrior, and a better man.” He smiled, and set his hand on her shoulder. “I’m not sorry I’ve developed our relationship beyond the chain of command. Quite the contrary. As proud as I am to call you my Knight, I’m even prouder to call you my friend.” </p><p> </p><p>Nora looked at him with something close to wonderment. Then she flustered, darting her eyes away from his. “I… thank you. I don’t know what to say.” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t need to say anything,” he said. “I simply want you to know how important you’ve become to me, on a personal level.” </p><p> </p><p>“I…” She met his eyes again, her gaze turned soft and emotional. “You’ve been-- I really don’t think I would have made it this far without you. And I don’t mean in the Brotherhood. It’s more than that to me. You’re more than that. I… honestly never thought I’d hear you say it first.” </p><p> </p><p>Heat blossomed in his chest. Those gray eyes of hers could melt through a Boston winter, he imagined. “I’m pleased to hear it. And I’m pleased I had the chance to tell you, before it might be too late.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m so happy you did.” </p><p> </p><p>“Please be careful,” said Danse. “I wish I could go with you. But all I can do is pray you return safe.” </p><p> </p><p>“I will,” she said. “Whatever it takes, I’ll come back.” </p><p> </p><p>Then Nora rested her weight against him, her head relaxed against his shoulder. It was far more physical contact than they’d yet had. He’d carried her out of a firefight once. She helped him apply a stimpak to his wounded arm once. They’d slept side by side in cramped bivouacs and temporary shelters. But that was a far cry from... this. </p><p> </p><p>The funny thing was, he found himself accepting it quite naturally. Danse put his arm around her to make the position more comfortable, draping his hand along her side. They sat that way for a long time. Long enough for Dogmeat to roll over, curl up on the far side of the couch, and fall asleep. </p><p> </p><p>Fire crackled in the wood stove, and rain rumbled softly against the cabin’s roof. Nora’s weight rested warm and solid against his chest, rising and falling with their mutual breaths. She nestled contentedly in his arms. It was warm, safe, and comfortable. Happy, or something close to it. </p><p> </p><p>Danse became acutely aware of several things. His heart was beating faster. His palms were sweaty. He felt multiple, specific urges. To touch her more. To wrap his arms tighter around her. To run his fingers through those short dark locks. To whisper in her ear, or lift her into his lap, or nuzzle her hair.</p><p> </p><p>The latter urge was so novel that he unthinkingly succumbed to it, resting his cheek against the side of her head. The scent of sweat and smoke clung to her hair. His beard gently caught and tugged the soft strands, and she let out a pleasant sigh. </p><p> </p><p>Now this? This was bad. An unacceptable breach of protocol between sponsor and subordinate, Paladin and Knight. He should withdraw immediately. Say he didn’t know what had gotten into him. Apologize. </p><p> </p><p>Nora turned her head. Danse immediately assumed it was to tell him off, to rightfully remind him this wasn’t appropriate. Instead, she met his gaze and spoke so softly it was barely a whisper. </p><p> </p><p>“Danse?” Not “Paladin.” Not “Sir.” His name, all by itself, tenuous and hopeful. “Humor me.” </p><p> </p><p>She leaned closer. Close enough to feel her exhale, mere inches away. When her lips brushed his, nearly as soft as her breath, even he couldn’t pretend he didn’t know what this was. </p><p> </p><p>So he kissed her. </p><p> </p><p>He’d never had much time for physical affection. He’d been too busy trying to survive before the Brotherhood, and too busy trying to thrive within it. But he’d been holed up in barracks and dormitories long enough to understand how things worked. Many human beings had physical needs, and in close quarters one became accustomed to turning a blind eye to dalliances. Danse only rarely partook himself. There were only a few late night exchanges, long ago when he was a young and frustrated Initiate. Men and women both, fellow soldiers willing to lend one another a hand or a mouth or a thigh for quick, mutual release. That was being a soldier. Camaraderie, taking the edge off for one another. He’d never kissed any of them. It never meant anything.</p><p> </p><p>This? Meant something. He knew it the moment their lips tangled, the moment his heart leaped and his blood caught fire. When her hand cupped his cheek and he brought his up to match. When he heard her hum with satisfaction and relief, and he echoed it with a soft and longing sound from the back of his throat.</p><p> </p><p>They broke apart, but did not pull away. She brushed her lips against his again, then again. Between checking if he was dreaming and feeling his heart about to pop out from his ribs, he was too distracted to respond. Nora slowed, pressing one more kiss to the corner of his mouth, then drawing back. </p><p> </p><p>Danse opened his eyes half-lidded to meet hers. She looked puzzled and searched his face, which no doubt looked completely dumbfounded. “Danse?” </p><p> </p><p>He blinked. Then he kissed her again. </p><p> </p><p>She pulled herself into his lap, clutching at his shoulders to brace herself. He leaned back against the dusty cushions and let her devour him, slow and jaw-working kisses that left him aching from the chest up. His palms rested at her hips, then slid around her for an embrace as she edged closer, leaned harder, kissed him deeper. </p><p> </p><p>Her palm flattened at his chest, over his heart. Her fingertips tugged at the collar of his shirt. That one tiny, silly motion brought him crashing back into the moment, into reality. He clasped his hand over hers and squeezed. </p><p> </p><p>“We- we have to stop.”</p><p> </p><p>She pulled back an inch or two, her breathing quickened and her face flushed. “Have to?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m your sponsor.” Danse’s throat felt incredibly dry all of a sudden. “Your commanding officer.” </p><p> </p><p>“Is this… not allowed?” Nora smiled sheepishly. “You’re not pressuring me.” </p><p> </p><p>“My outranking you is… problematic. Protocol dictates-- it’s inappropriate for a superior to fraternize…” He sighed loudly. “I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>For an agonizing moment she could only stare at him, as though trying to decide if he was serious. But of course he was. At last she let out a deep breath and nodded. “It’s okay.” She looked away and brushed her hair back from her face. “You’re just watching out for me.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not right when I have power over you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I-I understand. You’re being responsible.” </p><p> </p><p>There. Now he’d done his duty, keeping her on track with the Brotherhood’s rules. Keeping the integrity of his rank. Keeping himself focused on the mission and not on the temptation to fraternize with his subordinate. He’d done what he was supposed to.</p><p> </p><p>That meant it was all right to have enjoyed kissing her. It was all right that she was still in his lap, still had her hands clutching his shoulders for purchase. It was all right that he was so, so goddamn tempted to kiss her again, to roll her over on the couch, to feel her sigh and shiver beneath him-- </p><p> </p><p>No. No, this was right. Even if neither of them could make eye contact, at the moment. It was the right thing to do, if not the right thing to say. Now if only Danse didn’t feel like the biggest fool in the world for it. </p><p> </p><p>Nora spoke first. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break the rules.” </p><p> </p><p>“No. That’s my failure, not yours.” </p><p> </p><p>“If I made you uncomfortable…” </p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t. I…” He fumbled a moment. “I knew full and well what was happening. I permitted it to progress that far. I didn’t discourage you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Do you...  wish you had?” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” he said instantly. “God, no. But I- have it on good authority that you’re under consideration for a promotion.” </p><p> </p><p>Good lord. What the hell was that?</p><p> </p><p>Nora stared at him a moment, utterly confused. Then she started to laugh. “Oh? Is that... good news?” </p><p> </p><p>Whatever the smooth and charming thing to say in this situation, that absolutely wasn’t it. “It would put us on equal rank,” he went on, apparently determined to keep digging this hole until he either stumbled out of it or reached the earth’s core. “I’m sorry. What I’m implying is, if you would like to... discuss this again… when you’re a Paladin...”  </p><p> </p><p>“I see.” A coy, impossibly mischievous smile rose on her lips. “I’d like that.” </p><p> </p><p>His own smile, he hoped, only looked a fraction as stupid as he felt. “I would too.” </p><p> </p><p>With another gentle laugh, she rested her head on his shoulder. His arms found their way around her, and she nestled in to lie back with him. It was all right to hold her like this. It was all right to wish he could have more. </p><p> </p><p>“My God,” Danse mused aloud. “I’m not very good at these things, but I wonder if I could have made that any more awkward.”</p><p> </p><p>“Believe it or not, I noticed this about you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I am sorry, if I hurt your feelings.” </p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t. I don't want to get you in trouble.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m already in trouble, when it comes to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why, sir, I have no idea what you mean.” </p><p> </p><p>It was all right to let his lips brush her forehead, very briefly. It was all right to whisper in her ear. “You know very well you’re a troublemaker, Knight Carter.” </p><p> </p><p>“You knew that when you sponsored me, Paladin Danse,” she teased. “And I’m starting to suspect you like it.” </p><p> </p><p>It was all right to laugh at that. It was all right to admit she was absolutely correct. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The sturdy walls, lantern-lit streets, and relatively intact buildings may have created a secure ambiance, but only a fool would let his guard down in Goodneighbor. </p><p> </p><p>Danse absolutely despised the place. If there was a filthier, seedier semi-civilized place in the Commonwealth, he’d never been there. A run-down, crime-ridden excuse for a town populated only by the truly ruthless and the truly downtrodden. Chemheads, criminals, thieves, and the other dredges of society came to Goodneighbor when no other place would take them. </p><p> </p><p>For the first time, though, Danse felt something other than disgust as he and Valentine stepped through the square. A pair of ghouls lay slumped on a bench, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep. Drifters stood over a fire blazing in a metal barrel, rotating to keep warm. An old woman, her voice slurred by alcohol, loudly argued with the Neighborhood Watch escorting her out of a shop. A scrawny teenage boy sat on a curb, his dark hair overgrown, his eyes sunken from hunger. Desolate people in a desolate town, scraping by and trying to survive. </p><p> </p><p>Danse knew how it was both to have nothing, and to lose everything. He could have easily ended up in a place like this if he’d never joined the Brotherhood. Hell, he could have landed here after his exile if he didn’t have his skills and friends like Nora and Haylen to support him. How many of these people had also seen their lives go down in flames in an instant? How many had no other options? No means to defend themselves, no ability to support themselves, nowhere else to go? </p><p> </p><p>Too bad feeling empathy for them didn’t make Goodneighbor residents less likely to stab him in the kidney for his caps. The need to keep an eye out put something of a damper on Danse’s otherwise compassionate revelation. </p><p> </p><p>Valentine had a cigarette tucked in his mouth. He kept his eyes on the street and on the congregation of drifters haunting the sidewalks and alleyways. Several of them called out as they passed. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey Nicky! How’s it going?” </p><p> </p><p>“Valentine, eyyy. Good to see ya.” </p><p> </p><p>“Business or pleasure, Detective?” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine gave each of them a courteous nod, but didn’t stop to chat. </p><p> </p><p>“You seem popular with the locals,” Danse remarked. </p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t say ‘popular.’ ‘Prolific,’ maybe.” Valentine took a drag on his cigarette. “I pass through more often than I’d like.” It made sense a detective who specialized in missing persons would often visit a place where people came to disappear. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve only been here once,” said Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“What for?” </p><p> </p><p>“Reconnaissance. Scouting the local settlements when my squad first arrived.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure they gave you a warm welcome.” </p><p> </p><p>“We were all clad in power armor, so most wisely kept their distance. One chemhead tried to rob Knight Rhys,” he recalled. “He shot him dead, and the bastard’s ‘friends’ were picking his pockets before his body hit the ground.” </p><p> </p><p>“Charming.” Valentine shook his head. “Stay on your guard. Most know better than to pick fights with me, but some might be attracted to a new face.” </p><p> </p><p>“If anyone intends to attack me, I welcome the attempt.” Danse was not the type to start fights, but finishing one by knocking someone's teeth out would be cathartic, at the moment </p><p> </p><p>“Knock on wood.” Valentine chuckled. “Not that I’d think you’d lose, but it’s better we don’t attract attention.” </p><p> </p><p>“I doubt the jumpsuit helps,” Danse glanced down at his clothing. The padded jumpsuit was bare of any Brotherhood insignias, but unmistakably authoritative and unusual in a place like this.  </p><p> </p><p>“Because it’s orange?” asked Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>“Well... That too.” </p><p> </p><p>There were eyes tracking them down the street, faces following their movement. Two men huddled over a fire in a barrel. A slight woman in a hooded raincoat, peering out from behind a corner. A teenage boy dragging his feet behind them. Four slumped figures lying against a wall, glassy-eyed from a chem high. Eyes watching them, sizing them up, labeling them harmless or threats or rivals or targets. </p><p> </p><p>They stepped into Scollay Square and beheld the bright neon sign atop the Memory Den straight ahead. Two ghouls in patched three-piece suits stood milling about near the entrance, wielding submachine guns. They spoke in low voices, and when a woman approached the entrance to the building, they quickly stepped in front of her and chased her off.</p><p> </p><p>“They look to be guarding the place.” Danse frowned. “Why?” </p><p> </p><p>“Neighborhood Watch. They’re what passes for law around here.” Valentine kept walking. “Let’s see what’s up.” </p><p> </p><p>The two ghouls watched them approach and sure enough, stepped forward to stop them. One of them pointed his gun at Valentine. “That’s close enough!”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, hey!” The other reached out and shoved the gun’s barrel aside. “Mind your manners.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a syn-” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s Nick Valentine, dumbass.” </p><p> </p><p>“Who?” </p><p> </p><p>“For fuck’s sake, Phil. Don’t mind him, Nicky, he’s new.” </p><p> </p><p>“Davis.” Valentine nodded a greeting. “What’s going on here?” </p><p> </p><p>“Official business. Memory Den’s closed ‘til further notice, so says Mayor Hancock.” </p><p> </p><p>“Something happen?” asked Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>“Official business, I said. Confidential-like, you know. You’ll have to come back later.” </p><p> </p><p>“Come on, now, Davis, I’m practically a VIP. You can’t give me a pass?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, Nicky. No exceptions, not even you.” </p><p> </p><p>“How long is this going to take?” </p><p> </p><p>“‘Til I hear otherwise.” Davis motioned with a thumb. “Shove off.”</p><p> </p><p>Valentine shrugged, stepping away. Danse followed.</p><p> </p><p>“Now isn’t that an inconvenient coincidence,” Valentine muttered. “They’ve never turned me away before. Something serious must have happened.” </p><p> </p><p>“I hope nobody’s hurt,” said Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“So do I.” Valentine shook his head. “Gotta be somebody around who knows what’s going on. Nothing’s really confidential in Goodneighbor.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse turned to have a look around the square. It was time to think like a local. Which of these people would have paid attention to events? Who would actually answer questions? There were still eyes on them from all directions, but one pair in particular caught his notice. </p><p> </p><p>The same scrawny teenage boy was pacing along the side of a building about twenty feet away from them. Danse made eye contact nearly instantly, confirming he was, indeed, watching them. Following them. </p><p> </p><p>“I have an idea,” said Danse. He took a few steps towards the boy. </p><p> </p><p>Sure enough, the teenager bristled, looking away and pretending he had no reason to be nervous. He sauntered vaguely along the wall. The casual act did him no favors in attempting to escape. Danse quickly caught up to him with his much longer stride. </p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me.” Danse reached into his pack. His other hand rested on the boy’s shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>The teenager jumped and squeaked. He looked no older than 14 or 15, his black hair shaggy, his skin listless and pale. He wore ragged trousers, a filthy shirt, a threadbare red jacket several sizes too large. His teeth grit and he whipped a flimsy handmade shiv out of his jacket pocket, holding it up with an improper grip. “Get away from me!” </p><p> </p><p>“There’s no need for that.” Danse snatched his wrist and harmlessly disarmed him in seconds. The shiv clattered on the cement. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck!” If possible, the boy’s face got even paler. He shrank back against the wall and put his hands up defensively. “I-I didn’t do anything! I don’t want no trouble!” </p><p> </p><p>“There’s no trouble, son,” said Danse. “I have questions for you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know nothin’!” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not asking for free.” From his pack, he withdrew the small metal box where he kept his caps and jingled it for show. </p><p> </p><p>The boy looked up at him, blinking in wonderment. His eyes darted to the side as Valentine stepped up to join them. Truthfully, he kept his composure admirably, for being cornered against a wall by a large, imposing soldier and an obvious synth. “You’re not gonna hurt me?” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course not,” said Valentine. “All we want is some information.” </p><p> </p><p>The boy’s posture began to relax. “Like what?” </p><p> </p><p>“Your name, to start with.” </p><p> </p><p>“What’s it to you?” </p><p> </p><p>“This is a polite conversation. My name is Danse. I’d like to know yours.” </p><p> </p><p>He hesitated, then lifted his scrawny shoulders in a brief shrug. “Ran.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ran. This is Mister Valentine. We’re pleased to make your acquaintance.” Danse opened the box and began counting out caps. “Do you frequent this area? I saw you following us.” </p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t gonna do anything. I was just--” </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t assume you were. Do you know what’s going on at the Memory Den?” </p><p> </p><p>Ran exhaled. “I dunno. Some kind of fight, early this morning. I heard gunshots and some yelling.” </p><p> </p><p>“Was anybody hurt?” asked Valentine urgently. “Irma, or Dr. Amari?” </p><p> </p><p>“I dunno.” Ran shrugged again. “The Watch has been over there a couple hours now. They’re not letting anybody in or out.” </p><p> </p><p>“Damn,” muttered Valentine. “I guess that’s the best we’re gonna get.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why?” asked Ran. “You want to get in there or something?” </p><p> </p><p>“As quickly as possible,” said Danse. </p><p> </p><p>Ran looked between them suspiciously. He slipped to the side and out from the wall, pacing a few steps casually. “Well, you know… there’s probably a back way in. Where the Watch won’t notice. Maybe I could show you where it is…”</p><p> </p><p>Valentine smirked. “Oh, you don’t say?”</p><p> </p><p>“Man, it’s the craziest shit… I seem to be… having some trouble remembering…” Ran put his hand out, palm-up. Danse set a heavy handful of caps in it. “Oh yeah, that’s right. The northwest corner of the hotel, in the alley.” Ran hurriedly pocketed his bounty. “If you wanted to be there in like, ten minutes… Thirty caps-- no, wait. Forty?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sounds like the going rate to me,” said Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>“Good.” Ran grinned and turned to run off. “Ten minutes.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ran,” said Danse sternly. “Look me in the eye.” </p><p> </p><p>The boy skidded to a stop, turning around and doing just that. </p><p> </p><p>“I want to be very clear with you.” Danse spoke to him in the same tone he used to use on the squires, a slightly warmer version of his usual sternness. “We’re putting our trust in you. I’m counting on you to take it seriously, and not to do anything to betray that trust.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m-- not,” said Ran, suspiciously quickly. “I said I’d meet you there.” </p><p> </p><p>“We need your help, Ran. I need your word you’ll do as you say.” He held the teenager’s gaze for a long moment, so long that he was clearly making him uncomfortable. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, okay.” Ran swallowed, then nodded. “I promise.”  </p><p> </p><p>“Good.” Danse smiled, very slightly. “Then we’ll see you in ten minutes.” </p><p> </p><p>The boy skittered off, disappearing into another alley. </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got a way with kids,” remarked Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>“Is that sarcasm?” </p><p> </p><p>“No, actually. I half-expected you to pick him up by the scruff. But that was well-handled.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks.” Danse vaguely chuckled. “Over the years, I’ve learned to adapt my tone to speak to children. The squires often used to be afraid of me.” </p><p> </p><p>“A big gruff mountain like you? Can’t imagine why.” Valentine took a drag on his cigarette.  “You think he was planning to call some friends and mug us?” </p><p> </p><p>“It wasn’t personal. But it was an opportunity. When you’re young, and hungry, and desperate, you’re always looking for opportunities.” Danse folded his arms. “I wanted him to understand the gravity of doing so, against your word.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine nodded. “Insightful.” </p><p> </p><p><em> Not really. I was him once </em>, Danse almost said. He caught himself upon realizing that he actually wasn’t.</p><p> </p><p>They headed across the square to the alleyways behind the Hotel Rexford. If the main streets of Goodneighbor raised Danse’s hackles, the alleys were a dozen times worse. Back here, nobody would witness somebody shoving a knife between your ribs. Nobody would even notice if you fell down and died in the gutter. </p><p> </p><p>They stood with their backs against the wall, looking out for the slightest trace of movement. Ten minutes passed. Just as they became concerned their “guide” wasn’t going to keep his end of the bargain, Ran appeared, improbably, peering out from a gap in an alleyway blocked by rubble. </p><p> </p><p>“This way,” he said. “Follow me.” What looked impassable to a casual observer was just narrow enough for the skinny boy to get through, and by bracing his legs against a piece of plywood and shoving, he opened the gap wide enough to make an opening for the two men.</p><p> </p><p>The back alleys were a veritable obstacle course of debris, but Ran had either navigated or crafted a route through them. He was practiced at climbing over and crawling under the rubble, and repeatedly had to stop and wait for Danse and Valentine to clumsily follow. </p><p> </p><p>Ran’s little garbage labyrinth ended in a fire escape on a building adjacent to the Memory Den. The metal structure had pulled away from the fallen bricks and tipped over, just close enough to reach the old theater’s roof.</p><p> </p><p>“Right there,” said Ran, pointing to the corner of the roof. “There’s a trap door into the rafters. I sleep in there when it’s raining or cold.”</p><p> </p><p>“Outstanding, Ran,” said Danse. “You’ve been extremely helpful.” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t show anybody, okay?” Ran demanded. “I don’t want anybody stealing my spot.” </p><p> </p><p>“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Valentine. “I couldn’t find my way back through there if I tried.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse dug through his box of caps again, counting them out. “Sixty caps. Our agreed amount, plus a bonus.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sixty?” Ran beamed. “Holy shit!” </p><p> </p><p>As Danse set the stack in the boy’s palm, he curled Ran’s fingers to close around it. “Listen to me, son. No chems. No alcohol. Buy food or secure a warm place to sleep,” he said sternly. “Understand?” </p><p> </p><p>Ran’s eyes grew wide. He nodded. </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t hear you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I- I understand.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good. And one more thing.” Danse swung his pack around to fetch something else. Tucked into the satchel was one of the Institute pistols dropped by the synths back at the Railroad outpost. He had long been in the habit of picking up discarded weapons for salvage and parts. He handed the pistol to Ran along with a pair of charged fusion cells.</p><p> </p><p>“Whoa.” Ran examined the pistol as though he’d never laid eyes on one before. “What’s this for?” </p><p> </p><p>“Use it. Scrap it. Sell it. Whatever you need,” said Danse. “Only take care of yourself. You’re too young and too clever to be stuck in a place like this.” </p><p> </p><p>He took a moment to teach the boy how to operate it, where to load it, the switch to turn off the safety. Ran’s grin grew as he experimented with flipping the switch, and with fitting the pistol in his jacket pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “Have fun at the Den.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, kid,” said Valentine. “Stay out of trouble.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They emerged from the roof hatch on the upper floors of the Memory Den. Valentine led the way down the stairs, calling out as he did. “Irma? Doc? It’s me, Nick.” </p><p> </p><p>He opened a door on the ground floor and they stepped into the ornately decorated parlor. The interior of the former theater still held much of its rigging, and the curtains had been repurposed to give it a posh, luxurious atmosphere. The parlor was lined with memory loungers, upholstered chairs outfitted with plastic domes, screens, and complex wiring and hardware all connected to a row of computers on the wall. </p><p> </p><p>Four Neighborhood Watch members stood throughout the room, all turning and pointing their guns at Danse and Valentine as they emerged. Two middle-aged women occupied a platform at the back of the room. A dark-haired woman in a labcoat jumped with surprise, and a blonde woman in an elaborate dress rose from a chaise lounge.</p><p> </p><p>“Mister Valentine!” The doctor spoke with an accent Danse couldn’t identify. He assumed that she was Dr. Amari. “How did you get in here?”</p><p> </p><p>“At ease, gentlemen.” The blonde woman motioned to the Watchmen. “He’s a friend.”</p><p> </p><p>“You sure, Miss Irma?” asked one of the Watchmen. </p><p> </p><p>“A treasured friend, and our most troublesome client.” Irma put her hands on her hips and sauntered closer, tossing her hair. “Nick Valentine. Of all the days to come sneaking in like you own the place…” </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, ladies. The bouncers turned me away.” Valentine tipped his hat in greeting. “We let ourselves in through the back door.” </p><p> </p><p>“Breaking and entering, more like.” Irma huffed. “Who’s this?” </p><p> </p><p>“This is Danse. He’s with me,” said Valentine. “Is everything all right? You gals don’t look hurt.” </p><p> </p><p>“No. We’re unharmed, as is Mister Connelly,” said Dr. Amari. “We had a rather bizarre intruder early this morning.” </p><p> </p><p>“Can I make a wild guess?” asked Valentine. “Was it an old synth?” </p><p> </p><p>Irma and the doctor both threw him incredulous looks. “That’s better than a lucky guess. How in the world did you know?” Amari asked. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s the same reason we’re here.” Valentine pulled out the folder of documents they’d acquired at the Exile’s hideout. “We’ve got an emergency, Doc, and we need your help to decipher these. Hopefully we can explain your little visitor.” </p><p>   </p><p>Amari wasted no time in bringing Danse and Valentine into the basement, a small private laboratory. There was another pair of memory loungers set up, along with countertops and shelves full of medical equipment and surgical tools, well-kept and clean. Even the sight of them reminded Danse of the horrific surgery room at the hideout and sent a shudder down his spine. </p><p> </p><p>On one of the countertops lay the remains of a gen-1 synth, its head detached and lying in a pile of broken parts beside it. Danse looked to Amari, gesturing at the pieces and silently requesting permission to look. She nodded. </p><p> </p><p>"It was around 3:00 this morning,” Amari recalled. “I don’t know where it came from, and I don’t know what it was doing here. We awoke to the sounds of someone moving in the lounge. I thought it might be Kent, tinkering like he does, but we heard him shout in fear. We raced downstairs and there it was, shooting uselessly at Kent’s door. As soon as it saw us, it opened fire.” </p><p> </p><p>“Goodness,” said Valentine. “Then what?” </p><p> </p><p>“Irma had her shotgun. Took its head off with one blast.” Amari folded her arms. “The Watch arrived a few minutes later.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good ol’ Irma. Glad you were all safe.” </p><p> </p><p>“As am I. Mayor Hancock ordered the Den closed and the Watch to stay until further notice, in case there are any more. I’ve been a nervous wreck all day. Just thinking about the Institute poking around here makes my skin crawl.” </p><p> </p><p>“Not the Institute,” said Danse. He lifted a small fragment of hardware from the pile, the remnants of a familiar chip clumsily assembled by wasteland tech. “It was hijacked.” </p><p> </p><p>Amari’s eyes widened. “What is that?” </p><p> </p><p>“We’ve got an intact one, too. Have a look.” Valentine handed Amari the chip from his pocket. She studied it closely. </p><p> </p><p>“Astounding,” she said. “This is rather sophisticated, for a wastelander. But who would be mad enough to toy with synths like this?” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s the bad news,” said Valentine. He informed Amari about their hunt for the Exile, the kidnappings, the abandoned house, the dead synth and the device he’d been wired to. Then he handed her the folder full of papers.</p><p> </p><p>The doctor sorted through the documents, turning the pages left and right to examine the drawings. “Expert-level concepts, amateurish diagrams. Like someone sketching them poorly from memory.” She set them down on the table and began to arrange them, as though trying to decipher the way they fit together. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, dear,” she said, after several minutes. </p><p> </p><p>“What is it?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“This is… remarkably similar to the technology we’re using here.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a memory lounger?” asked Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>Amari opened her mouth to answer, then thought better of it. She looked between Danse and Valentine and let out a breath through her teeth. “Mister Valentine, what I’m about to tell you is deeply sensitive, and the lives of many depend on its secrecy. I have full faith you will keep it to yourself. But he…” Amari eyed Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s with me,” Valentine insisted. </p><p> </p><p>“Is that not a Brotherhood of Steel uniform?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m no longer with the Brotherhood,” said Danse. “I will keep anything you say in the strictest confidence. You have my word.” </p><p> </p><p>“He’s on our side, Doc,” said Valentine. “He won’t talk.”</p><p> </p><p>She looked between them, then let out a soft sigh. “Very well. These diagrams appear to be a crude mimic of these memory loungers, specifically.” She motioned to the two models in the laboratory. “They look like the ones upstairs, but the configurations are different. These are the ones I use in… my work with the Railroad.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah…” Valentine nodded. “I see.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse didn’t. “What do you do with the Railroad?”</p><p> </p><p>“I provide mind-wipes and memory implants on the escaped synths who request it.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse felt abruptly like he’d been punched in the stomach. His eyes snapped to one of the loungers. “You? You perform mind-wipes?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” Amari went back to gesturing at the diagrams. “These parts here, these wires and electrodes, those interface with the synth component and… well, suffice to say, this design is configured for advanced functionality on synths. For rewriting their memories to cover up their old ones.”</p><p> </p><p>“For God’s sake,” Valentine murmured. “They <em> are </em>trying to reprogram synths.”</p><p> </p><p>“But I cannot stress to you how dangerous it would be,” said Amari. “I’m a medical expert, working with professional equipment maintained by a trained mechanic. To piecemeal something like this together with wasteland junk, to test it on a synth… it’s astoundingly reckless. It’s <em> barbaric </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“From what we know about our synthnapping suspect, ‘barbaric’ fits their M.O. to a T,” muttered Valentine. “But what you said about the diagrams… maybe that’s why the tampered synth was here. They can’t recreate the process from memory, so they send their little friend here to investigate.” </p><p> </p><p>“That would make perfect sense!” Amari laced her fingers together thoughtfully. “Perhaps it was here to steal parts, or to document the mechanical setup.”</p><p> </p><p>Amari continued explaining the workings of the amateur memory device according to the diagrams, but Danse wasn’t listening. He was staring at the innocent-looking lounger, encased by its plastic bubble. Here, in this very basement, he may have once been “reborn.” Had his identity erased, and every aspect of his mind, his memory, his life rewritten by this woman. </p><p> </p><p>This wasn’t the time. He had to focus on the investigation, on tracking down the murderous Exile. But he couldn’t get the image out of his head-- of his own body, slumped in that lounger, limp and mindless as his entire self was programmed into him. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you recognize any of these?” Valentine was showing Amari the list of synth designations. </p><p> </p><p>She studied it, nodded, and pointed out a few of the listed codes. Two were at the top of the page, both crossed out. “H9-64. L8-81. They came through last month. But this one, B8-54, under ‘seen…’ That was years ago.” </p><p> </p><p>“You remember all your patients?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“Hardly. There’s been dozens of them,” said Amari. “Sometimes they’re hard to forget. B8, for instance, had a difficult journey to reach me. But the mind-wipe was successful and when she left, she was Hannah. How would anyone know her designation after all this time?” </p><p> </p><p>“What about the circled one?” Danse’s chest tightened. “Do you know that one?” </p><p> </p><p>“M7-97? It doesn’t sound familiar,” said Amari. “But as I said, I’ve had dozens of patients. I couldn’t possibly remember all of them off the top of my head. Nor would it be safe for them if I did.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine gave Danse a sympathetic glance that made his chest feel even tighter. Then he hastily changed the subject. “This person’s a murderer, Doc. A real sadist,” he said. “We want to stop them before they kill again. Do you see anything on these papers that could help us track them down? Anything at all?” </p><p> </p><p>Amari pored over the papers, her lips moving slightly as she tried to decipher the words and what they meant. Her eyebrows rose suddenly. “Oh, what about this?” She set the paper down and pointed to it. “Twilight.” </p><p> </p><p>“What does it mean?” asked Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>"This is a list of chemical compounds.” Amari pointed to the other words nearby. “When I operate on a synth, I administer anaesthesia to dull pain and facilitate the neural connections. It appears your amateur surgeon is doing the same, but substituting a large quantity of ‘Twilight.’ That’s the street name for a particularly powerful variety of Med-X. Marowski’s gang manufactures it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Conveniently, Marowski operates right here in Goodneighbor,” mused Valentine. “How ‘large quantity’ are we talking about?” </p><p> </p><p>“According to this? Five doses for one operation.” Amari shook her head. “You could get a better estimate from anyone on the street, but that would cost an astounding amount of caps. More than your average addict could afford.” </p><p> </p><p>“Great lead.” Valentine hummed thoughtfully. “How d’you suppose Marowski would take it if we waltzed up to him and asked who buys up all his Twilight?” </p><p> </p><p>“Given the sensory recalibrations I had to do last time you ran afoul of his people? Poorly.” </p><p> </p><p>“C’mon, Doc. That wasn’t even one of <em> his </em>. Just some crazy merc he hired.” </p><p> </p><p>“Regardless, I can spare you the trouble altogether,” said Amari. “You should look for Alfie Garrison.”</p><p> </p><p>“Who?”</p><p> </p><p>“One of our regulars. She deals Twilight for Marowski. She’s been selling at the Third Rail and making a killing.” </p><p> </p><p>“How do you know that?” </p><p> </p><p>“Because she boasts about it every time she comes in.” Amari rolled her eyes. “I’m certain it wouldn’t take much to make her talk about who’s buying from her.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, Ms. Garrison won’t be dealing for Marowski for long if her mouth’s that big.” Valentine chuckled. “What’s she look like?” </p><p> </p><p>“Graying red hair with a buzz cut. A scar on her forehead. If you wait at the Third Rail long enough, you’re sure to find her.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine looked deeply pleased by the deluge of leads. “What do you think about an old-fashioned stakeout, Danse?” he asked. “We go make ourselves scarce at the Third Rail and keep our eyes out for Ms. Garrison.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse glanced briefly down at his jumpsuit. “I think I’ll stick out like a sore thumb.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’d have to agree,” said Amari. “If you’d like, I have some spare clothes you could have. Something a little more inconspicuous than hunter orange.” </p><p> </p><p>“Amari, you’re an angel,” said Valentine brightly. “As usual, I’m in your debt.” </p><p> </p><p>“Just be careful, Mister Valentine. I’m going to be terribly sore if I have to piece you back together at any point,” said Amari. “Mister Danse, was it? Come with me.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse followed Dr. Amari  to a small storage room. Tools and medical supplies littered the shelves, and in the back was a wooden wardrobe full of clothing and shoes. “We keep these for synths who might need a change of clothes, after escaping the Institute,” she said. “I think your size is further to the right. Please, help yourself.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.” He planned to keep his boots, and there was nothing wrong with his shirt, but he’d need pants. Perhaps a jacket. It would be best if he looked like any other average wasteland drifter whiling away time in a wretched dive like the Third Rail. </p><p> </p><p>It was difficult to focus on the clothes when he was still so distracted. Amari hadn’t shown any recognition of his face, or of his designation. But it was worth asking her anyway. “Doctor, I wonder if I might ask you some questions.” </p><p> </p><p>“What about?” </p><p> </p><p>“About… me,” he said. “I was wondering if you remembered me, by chance.” </p><p> </p><p>Amari pursed her lips and took a look at him. “I can’t say I do. Why? Who are you?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m... not sure.” Danse took a deep breath. “I think I came through the Railroad. But I don’t know when, or where.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah. I see.” Amari’s eyes lit briefly with understanding. “Do you know your designation?”</p><p> </p><p>“I was M7-97.”</p><p> </p><p>“M7…” She frowned. “That was on the list, was it not?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p> </p><p>“My God. You must be extremely cautious,” said Amari. “If this person knows what you look like, knows you’re a synth, you could be targeted as well.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m aware of the significance. And the fact someone else knows more about me than I do is… exceptionally grating.” Danse sighed through his teeth. “I only wanted to know if you might be able to tell me something. Anything.” </p><p> </p><p>Amari shook her head, but her expression was sympathetic. “I wish I could help. I honestly don’t recall ever working on you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I understand.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m truly sorry. It may be better you don’t remember.” </p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps so.” Glory had said the same thing. Whatever M7-97 had gone through, wherever he came from and when, he’d thought it better to forget. Safer to hide within his own brain, lost forever in his memories. Danse should be able to accept that. He should be able to respect the decision, to grant the synth he once was the peace of mind he’d been hoping for. </p><p> </p><p>But he also knew it was too late. That peace had been shattered the moment he learned the truth about himself. M7-97 had the luxury of forgetting, but now Danse carried the burden for him. He would never be at peace, never be satisfied, maybe even never come to terms with his identity until he could answer those questions-- questions that may no longer even have answers. </p><p> </p><p>Unless… </p><p> </p><p>“I had one more question, if it’s all right.” </p><p> </p><p>“Certainly.” </p><p> </p><p>“Back there, you said you cover up the memories, when you rewrite them. Is there any way to… uncover them?” </p><p> </p><p>Amari paused a moment. “Are you asking if it’s possible to restore memories after they’ve been altered?” </p><p> </p><p>It took him a moment to decide. “Yes. That’s what I’m asking.” </p><p> </p><p>She thought long and hard. “It isn’t a simple task,” she said at last. “Think of the mind as a picture, a puzzle. When I alter a synth’s memories, I can’t remove random pieces and replace them with others and hope everything will fit properly. If I want to change the picture, I have to apply a coat of paint to it. Cover it. Create a full, coherent image in the patient’s brain. It’s not something undertaken lightly, and not something meant to be undone.”</p><p> </p><p>“But is there any way to separate that from what was there before?” he asked. “A way to see what had been covered?” </p><p> </p><p>“You could use equipment like mine to scratch beneath the surface. To peel back the alterations I made. But it is a tremendous risk,” she said. “The slightest tweak could cause catastrophic harm.” </p><p> </p><p>“Like what?” </p><p> </p><p>“It could irreparably damage your mind. Destroy your personality and who you are. At worst, it could inhibit your cognitive functions, the signals between your brain and body. You could end up braindead.” </p><p> </p><p>“I see.” Danse looked away. He plucked a pair of olive drab trousers out of the closet. </p><p> </p><p>Amari remained standing behind him, watching him sort through the clothes. “Tell me, Mister Danse. What are you hoping to remember? Is it truly worth such incredible risk?”</p><p> </p><p>“How can I even know how to answer that?” He let out a slow breath. “Everything I am, everything I remember is in question. I don’t know what’s real and what someone programmed into me. I don’t even know how much of me is really me.” </p><p> </p><p>He clenched his fists, as though struggling to grip some concept floating in the air before him. “I’m not asking for a miracle. I’m not asking for anything. I simply want to understand the possibilities. I want to understand how it works, what I’d lose, what can be regained in case I decide…” He drifted off. </p><p> </p><p>“In case,” said Amari carefully, “you decide to ‘forget’ again.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't know, I just really have fun leaning into Danse's achingly courteous himbo nerd side. The one that makes him a nervous mess every time the Sole so much as bats an eyelash at him. I did a hilarious amount of stressing over how much if any experience Danse has in physical relationships and ended up glossing over it quickly anyway, but you know he's definitely the type who would take his rank and responsibility toward his subordinates VERY SERIOUSLY. </p><p>Next chapter: The Third Rail, a chem deal, and our suspect... revealed?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Midnight In A Madhouse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Cold" comfort, the Third Rail, a chem deal, and a suspect.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“‘Hackin’ and whackin’ and smackin’... hackin’ and whackin’ and…’ oh. Not the best song right now, huh?” </p><p> </p><p>“I feel any of that back there, you’re in big trouble, Sturges.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hah! Don’t worry, Nicky. I’ve got the gentlest hands in the Commonwealth.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick had certainly had better Friday nights. He lay face down on a dining room table. His coat was off, draped over his waist, His “skin” was open and peeled back and his pain sensors were deactivated, so he could only feel the dull sensation of pliers and a screwdriver jammed inside of him. </p><p> </p><p>Vigilance couldn’t always prevent unexpected surprises out in the wastes. Case in point, the raider ambush on his way north that left him riddled with bullets. Of course, it was only afterwards the gang leader recognized Nick and swiftly called off the attack, fiercely apologizing and dragging his crew off into the underbrush. Two unexpected surprises in one! Would have been nice if the guy remembered that Nick did him a good turn <em> before </em>shooting him three times in the back. Would have been nice if Nick remembered what that good turn was, and for whom… </p><p> </p><p>Two of the bullets got stuck, caught in the gears and servos that made up his shoulder. He lost nearly all range of movement in his left arm, and twisting it too far made sparks shoot out at the joint. That made the rest of the trek to Sanctuary its own kind of exciting.</p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, his destination was home to one of the most brilliant mechanics in the Commonwealth, one of the few Nick readily trusted to open him up. Sturges was an all-around good man and a damn-near savant. All he had to do was take a look under the skin, and he’d known immediately how everything in Nick’s shoulder and arm was meant to function and fit together. Shame that he lived so far from Diamond City, or Nick would gladly see him for all the advanced maintenance that came with being a synth well out of warranty. </p><p> </p><p>Nick strained his optics to read the Grognak comic book open on the floor beneath the table, ignoring the shadows on the wall. He was mostly accepting of his mechanical body after all this time, but he hated watching the silhouette of Sturges pulling parts out of him. </p><p> </p><p>The mechanic whistled pleasantly with the radio as he worked, taking things out, cleaning them up, repairing the damage from the bullet. “So, what brings you to our neck of the woods? You here to visit the General?”</p><p> </p><p>“That was the idea.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ah, good. I bet she’ll appreciate it.” </p><p> </p><p>“I hope so.” Normally, he knew she would. But these weren’t normal circumstances. </p><p> </p><p>The last time he saw Nora was a week and a half ago, the day she came to Diamond City to tell him about a wild plan to infiltrate the Institute. The Brotherhood of Steel was building her an honest-to-god teleporter. With luck, she’d have her son back within the week-- though it was going to take a hell of a lot of luck for her to survive the endeavor. </p><p> </p><p>In observance of the occasion, they’d gone to the Dugout Inn with Piper and Nat. They had dinner and drinks and lively conversation about absolutely anything but the Institute. Its dark shadow hung over the evening regardless, setting a solemn tone no matter how they tried to spin it as a bon voyage party. </p><p> </p><p>After that, it was radio silence. Five days of it, before Piper breathlessly kicked down the door to the agency and announced that Nora had returned. She was unharmed. The mission was a success. </p><p> </p><p>It was troubling that Nick had to hear it from Piper, and not from Nora herself. It was even more troubling that Piper only found out by snooping around the Boston Airport and eavesdropping, at which point she’d been caught by two Brotherhood scribes and tossed out on her ear. </p><p> </p><p>So Nora made it back from the Institute safely. But she didn’t bother telling her friends. </p><p> </p><p>For a few days, Nick tried to be patient. Just because she came back safe and unharmed didn’t mean she came back unscathed. There was no telling what she’d found on the other side of the molecular relay, and from all Piper’s gathered intel she had come back alone, without her son. But after a week passed without any word, without so much as an “I’m okay,” he started to fret. </p><p> </p><p>Nora was many things to many people, but one thing she wasn’t was inconsiderate. Something was horribly wrong. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe they got into her head somehow. The Brotherhood hadn’t been able to dose her with their toxic indoctrination, but the Institute had her son to bargain with. Maybe they used him to crack her iron will, pour their poison in, start corrupting her from the heart--  convince her that she was better off working for them than standing against them. Or maybe they’d done something to her. Was it really Nora Carter who’d returned from the belly of the beast? Was it a synth, made to look like her, made to impersonate her and use her clout to further twist the Commonwealth to the Institute’s will? </p><p> </p><p>Nick spent the trip to Sanctuary coming up with no less than 24 theories, each more ghastly and unlikely than the last. He could admit there was bitterness creeping into his thoughts, offense at being cut out of the loop by someone he considered a dear friend. He hated feeling that way, but how else was he meant to feel? Whatever was going on with Nora, he had to get to the bottom of it before he drove himself crazy with what-ifs. </p><p> </p><p>“There ya go, my friend.” Sturges turned on his sensors, then tightened up the last screws to close him up. “All fixed. See how that does ya.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick sat up off the table, testing the range of motion in his arm. The servos moved smoothly, the gears were aligned, there was no resistance or stickiness. It actually felt better than it had in a long time. Sometimes even he lost track of how this damn body was supposed to function. “Thanks, Sturges, you’re a lifesaver.” </p><p> </p><p>“Welcome anytime.”  </p><p> </p><p>“Be careful what you wish for. How’d you like to do a full tuneup on me? I’ll pay.” </p><p> </p><p>“Aww, I couldn’t take your money, Nick.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, if you're gonna twist my arm…” Sturges grinned. “I’ll at least give you the General’s discount.” </p><p> </p><p>Her title reminded Nick why he was there. Not that he could have possibly forgotten, but the immediacy of the repairs had at least been a distraction. “Speaking of, where might I find her?” </p><p> </p><p>Sturges frowned as he slid his screwdriver back into his toolbelt. “At home, I expect. Hasn’t left in a week.” He reached up to awkwardly scratch the back of his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Has anybody checked on her?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure. Codsworth’s been fussin’ over her, as usual, and I’ve been dropping by once a day to make sure she’s all right.” Sturges took a few steps to peer out the front window. “But she’s been making herself scarce. Not coming out to eat or talk with anybody. I’m not the only one worried, but nobody wants to pry.” </p><p> </p><p>Across the street, the lights were off at Nora’s house. There were no other signs of life. </p><p> </p><p>“Honestly, I was glad to see you show up,” said Sturges. “I don’t know what’s eatin’ her, but if anybody can find out, it’s you.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick thanked Sturges once more and put his coat back on. Then he steeled his nerves (figure of speech) and headed to Nora’s. </p><p> </p><p>It had taken a long time for Nora to call the ruins of her prewar house “home” again. For the first few months after she awoke, she holed up at the Red Rocket station down the street. She once confided in Nick that Sanctuary was too quiet, too empty, brought back too many memories for her of when it wasn’t. As the settlement grew, as settlers moved in and the neighborhood began to resemble a town again, she’d become more comfortable. Nick had even helped her make a few improvements to the house, banking on his old handyman skillset to patch up the walls and roof while she replaced the curtains with some cheery scavenged bedsheets. </p><p> </p><p>The house was silent as he stepped inside. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if anyone was home. Then he heard a voice from the back rooms. He could see her through the wrecked walls before he even reached the doorway. </p><p> </p><p>Nora sat in the nursery, in an armchair beside the crib. She held a worn teddy bear to her chest, leaning forward, nearly doubled over. Her shoulders and back shook with unmistakable sobs.</p><p> </p><p>All at once, the 24 theories evaporated into thin air. It suddenly didn’t matter what she’d seen, what had happened, why she’d not said a word to him since her return. Her heart was broken, and seeing her like this, so was whatever passed for his. </p><p> </p><p>“Nora?” </p><p> </p><p>She sat up quickly. Her head whipped to the side and she froze when she spotted Nick’s glowing yellow eyes. Her expression crumbled and she stared at him guiltily, like he’d caught her committing a crime. “Nick?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, doll.” He smiled gently and stepped through the doorway. “Is it all right if I stay?” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, God, Nick.” Her voice was thin and strained. Nora stood up on unsteady legs, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>Then she stumbled to him and threw her arms around him. He returned the embrace, holding her as she swayed on her feet as though crying had drained her of energy.</p><p> </p><p>When it seemed she no longer had the strength to stand, he led her carefully to the couch in the living room, snatched a bottle of water from the countertop, and encouraged her to drink. He sat beside her, and she slumped against him to rest her head on his shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>Then he waited. He had questions. Thousands of them, but he didn’t dare ask. He wasn’t here to satisfy his curiosity. Not anymore. </p><p> </p><p>Nearly half the bottle of water was gone before Nora found the will to speak. “I’m so sorry, Nick. I should have told you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got my sources, and you’ve got your reasons.” </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t mean to ignore you. I just… I couldn’t...” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s all right.” </p><p> </p><p>“It isn’t.” She struggled through another breath. “After all we went through-- of all people, I owe you better than this. I owe you answers.” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t owe me anything.” </p><p> </p><p>“I owe you the truth. I owe everybody the truth and I… I just...” </p><p> </p><p>“Nora,” he said sternly, “Everybody owes <em> you </em>a bit of patience. I don’t want you to tell me anything you’re not ready to say. Do what you need to do. If you need to talk, or yell, or cry, or sit here ‘til sunrise-- I’m here.” </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, tentatively, she reached for his hand. Warm, soft skin, flesh and bone lacing with hard steel and circuits and plastic. She squeezed to hold securely, as though she didn’t notice the difference at all. </p><p> </p><p>It was a long time before she said more.</p><p> </p><p>“I made it to the Institute. I got inside. They didn’t attack me. They welcomed me in and let me look around. It’s everything I imagined it to be down there. Pristine, and bright, and beautiful. So much progress. So much hope. But there’s something wrong with it.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s all just… so cold, Nick. The hallways, the laboratories, even the people. All sterile and clinical and cold. Everything is one big experiment for them to play with, and poke at, and watch. Like specimens in a vat. Synths. Humans. The Commonwealth. They don’t care what they have to do. So long as their experiment goes smoothly, they don’t care who they hurt. Whose lives they ruin. My life--"</p><p> </p><p>She choked back another sob. “It was all a god damned experiment. They took my baby, for an experiment. They murdered my husband, and they call him ‘collateral damage’ for a fucking experiment. And I...” </p><p> </p><p>Nora turned her head to where he could see her face, her gray eyes shining wet. “I’m an experiment too. They only let me out of Vault 111 to see if I’d survive. To see what I’d do. It was all a game, all a trap, to lead me to the Institute. And Shaun…” </p><p> </p><p>Her voice caught in her throat. Her shoulders trembled, and fresh tears trailed down her cheeks. “I was too late.”</p><p> </p><p>“Too late?” He squeezed her hand. “You don’t mean he’s…” </p><p> </p><p>“He’s theirs. They’ve got their claws in him. My little boy...” The tears came steadier, and she broke down into racking sobs.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Nora…”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s gone. He’s gone. My baby is…” </p><p> </p><p> Nick opened his arms and held her as she crumpled, weeping into the worn fabric of his coat. </p><p> </p><p>He tried not to think about how thin and jagged his limbs were, how it would be better if he could offer her a warm, breathing chest or a strong shoulder to lean on. But if his hard metal body bothered her, she gave no indication. She cried on his shoulder and clutched him for purchase, letting him cradle her no matter how cold and sharp his offered comfort.</p><p> </p><p> It felt like hours passed as he held her, listening to her cry (his internal clock informed him it was only 26 minutes.) Soon she lay with her head in his lap, hugging the bear to her chest. His skeletal metal fingers stroked through her hair, carefully tracing little circles on her scalp.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t know what to do. All I’ve wanted since I woke up was to find Shaun. And it would be so easy to give in to them, do as they say, have my son back. But the things they’ve done, and the things they want… it’s so much bigger than me and my family now.” </p><p> </p><p>She held the bear tight to her chest. “The Minutemen and the Brotherhood, and all these people counting on me… There’s so much more at stake. It feels like the whole world is on my shoulders, and I don’t know what to do. So I’ve been cowering here. Hiding in my house like a coward.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re anything but a coward. You’ve been through hell, and you still do so much for so many.” He idly twisted a lock of her hair around one of his fingers. “Anybody asking you to do more, to give more… they’re looking out for themselves, not for you.”</p><p> </p><p>She let out a raw, shaky breath.</p><p> </p><p>“You do a good job taking care of everybody else. But you need to take care of you, too. You don’t have to do any of it alone. You’ve got Preston and Sturges. Codsworth. Piper and Ellie. That big lug clunking around behind you.” He paused, pleased to hear her laugh softly at that assessment. “And it's a small comfort, I know, but you’ve got a beat-up old synth in your corner, too.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s all right if you don’t know how to solve every problem. If you can’t keep going right now. You’re mourning. You’re hurt, but I know you, Nora. You’ve been through more than most people have in a lifetime, and you’re still here. You may be down, but you won’t be out for long.”</p><p> </p><p>Nora let out a deep, shaky breath. “The night just got darker, but it won’t last forever.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s right.” </p><p> </p><p>“A dear friend told me that once.”</p><p> </p><p>“He sounds like a smart guy.” </p><p> </p><p>“He is.” She turned her face to look at him. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, but there was the barest trace of a smile on her lips. “And kind. Even if he calls himself a beat-up old synth.”</p><p> </p><p>At last a sense of calm had come over her, as though all the anguish had drained and left nothing but exhaustion behind. Her hand curled behind his neck, and she lifted to press a tender kiss to his forehead.</p><p> </p><p>“I really needed you here tonight. I needed to hear your voice. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Nick.”</p><p> </p><p>Now that was just silly. It wasn’t possible for a synth to feel flustered. “Feeling’s mutual, doll. I’ve been missing you.”</p><p> </p><p>Nora brought their clasped hands to her chest, pressing his against the teddy bear. He could barely feel her heart beating beneath the soft fabric and stuffing. “I missed you too, bright eyes.” </p><p> </p><p>She drifted off soon after, falling asleep with her head in his lap. Nick considered carrying her to bed, but was unsure if he could do so comfortably-- or honestly, if his old limbs even had the strength to lift her. </p><p> </p><p>So instead, he let her sleep. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander, let himself imagine a different time, a different place, a different body, but the same woman curled up in his lap, cradling his human hand. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The Third Rail’s door opened, and Nick and Danse stepped apart to make room for the staggering drunk being violently 86’d from within. He landed with a crash and a muffled “oof” on the pavement, and the ghoul bouncer dusted his hands off with some finality. </p><p> </p><p>“And stay out, ya goddamn cheapskate.” Ham glanced up and tipped his hat in greeting. “Oh hey, Valentine. Didn’t know you were back in town.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick returned the favor. “Afternoon, Ham. Hancock’s got you working this early in the day?” </p><p> </p><p>“Eh. It’s a living.” The ghoul allowed them inside. He took a moment to finish kicking the drunken man’s limbs out of the way of the door, then shut it behind him. “What brings you ‘round this time?” </p><p> </p><p>“Business,” said Nick. “Lookin’ for a Ms. Alfie Garrison. You seen her today?” </p><p> </p><p>Ham let out a heavy sigh. “Not yet. I was hoping I’d get a day off.” </p><p> </p><p>“Difficult customer?” </p><p> </p><p>“She’s workin’ Hancock’s last nerve.” Ham huffed. “She in trouble or something?” </p><p> </p><p>“Not at all. We simply need to ask her some questions.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, that ain’t gonna be hard.” Ham rolled his eyes. “Good luck.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, Ham. Take care.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick didn’t particularly like spending time in Goodneighbor, but he’d always found the Third Rail unusually comforting. It was dark, it was grimy, the atmosphere was seedy and the people were often intoxicated, but there was a strange, almost homey calm to it. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement to leave troubles at the door, to make the bar a bubble where the people could while away their pain with terrible alcohol and excellent music. </p><p> </p><p>The musty air in the subway smelled like its usual blend of cigarette smoke and spilled booze. Even this early in the day, seats throughout the lounge were occupied by customers lying about in various stages of sobriety. Whitechapel Charlie had his usual position behind the bar, his robotic limbs busily polishing glasses and serving up drinks. </p><p> </p><p>Onstage, the flower of the Third Rail was already performing a set. Magnolia’s glittery red dress sparkled in the spotlight and she held the mic close, swaying as she sang. “<em> Have you got a history that needs erasing? Did you come in just for the beer and cigarettes? A broken down dream you're tired of chasing? Oh, well I'm just the girl to make you forget… </em>” </p><p> </p><p>Nick’s eyes met hers for a moment as he walked through. She shot him a wink, and he tipped his hat to reciprocate. The next few lines of her song were delivered with a coy edge, a little extra passion just for him.</p><p> </p><p>Danse, unfortunately, hadn’t gotten the memo about leaving worries at the door. He followed close behind Nick with his face stony, eyes darting left and right, hands in his pockets, shoulders drawn up high. He looked less authoritative in his change of clothes-- green cargo pants and a bomber jacket over his black tank-- so now he resembled an exceptionally anxious local. An exceptionally anxious, grouchy local who might snap somebody in half.</p><p> </p><p>“Easy there. You look like you’re going to punch the first person who speaks to you,” said Nick in a low voice. </p><p> </p><p>“Depends what they want,” Danse muttered. </p><p> </p><p>“Something tells me they won’t ask you.” Not with that “barely restrained violent outburst” energy pouring off of him. “What, you’ve never set foot in a skeevy dive before?” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t make a habit of frequenting such… establishments.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, relax. Hancock keeps this place pretty tight,” said Nick. “Sketchy as it looks, we were in more danger out on the corner.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse sneered. “That’s an <em> exceptionally </em>low bar to clear.” </p><p> </p><p>They sat down in an empty corner, Nick in an armchair, Danse on the end of a couch. The spot was sheltered by the subway walls, out of plain sight, and had an unobstructed view of the whole room. An ideal spot for a stakeout. </p><p> </p><p>Now all Nick had to do was survive an unknown amount of time in a dive bar with Danse, without the conversation turning either dire or awkward. Didn’t that sound like fun? </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s sharp brown eyes moved throughout the room as though taking in every detail. A soldier and a detective could observe the same room but come to different conclusions. He found himself curious what Danse was gleaning from it. Tactics, probably. Points of exit? Places to duck in a firefight? Where to aim a grenade? </p><p> </p><p>“What are you drinking?” Danse asked out of nowhere. </p><p> </p><p>“Mm?” The sudden offer had caught him off guard, mid-thought. “Sorry, what?” </p><p> </p><p>“It would be prudent to appear as though we aren’t here for an ulterior purpose.” said Danse. “Besides, it’s rude to loiter in an establishment without being paying customers.” </p><p> </p><p>The idea of adhering to business etiquette in a place like Goodneighbor was endearingly optimistic. Nick couldn’t help but chuckle. “Good thinking.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you. Now, I’d like to pick up the first round.” Danse stood up from the couch. “What can I get you?” </p><p> </p><p>“Anything strong, thanks. And sealed,” Nick added quickly. “Stick with something in a bottle and watch Charlie open it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why?” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t want to taste the ‘house special.’ Trust me.” </p><p> </p><p>“I…see. I appreciate the warning.” With a nod, Danse headed off to the bar. </p><p> </p><p>As he did, Nick took note of the other patrons, seeing if any of them paid any undue attention to him. This ended up a futile effort. On top of not being a regular, Danse was a big guy with a big laser holstered on his back. He turned plenty of heads as he walked across the room and spoke to the ill-tempered Mister Handy behind the bar. Nothing that Nick would call unusual or suspicious.</p><p> </p><p>He returned a few minutes later with two glasses of whiskey. He handed one to Nick, then settled down on the couch. “The robot behind the bar was quite irritated when I insisted he open a new bottle.” </p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t give him the chance to water it down.” Nick brought the glass to his nose and gave his sensors a whiff. Malty, fruity… the fine aroma of more-than-slightly-off 200-year-old whiskey. “Thanks again.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do.” Danse lifted the glass to his lips to sip, then suddenly paused. He glanced at Nick. Then at Nick’s glass. His eyebrows furrowed.</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“I beg your pardon,” Danse murmured. “You told me you didn’t eat or drink. The fact completely slipped my mind when I offered. I apologize.” </p><p> </p><p>“I can drink if I feel like it,” Nick assured him. “I wouldn’t let you waste your caps otherwise. Besides, I’m a fan of good whiskey.”</p><p> </p><p>“But that doesn’t make any sense.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p>“I would assume that the mechanical nature of your body makes imbibing liquids ill-advised.” Danse pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Do you have some manner of digestive system that allows you to contain and dispose of the moisture?” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, <em> that’s </em>a personal question…” </p><p> </p><p>“Humor me, Valentine.” </p><p> </p><p>“You only bought me one drink, Danse. It’ll take more than that to find out what’s under the coat.” </p><p> </p><p>The ensuing look on Danse’s face made the entire conversation worth it six times over. Nick decided to go easy on him, though, sparing his dignity with only a short laugh. </p><p> </p><p>The soldier at least took it well enough. He smirked, shaking his head and stoically ignoring the color his face had turned. “Tease if you like. Don’t come crying to me when your circuits corrode.” </p><p> </p><p>“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Nick raised his glass. “Here. A toast to our upcoming success.” </p><p> </p><p>“Indeed.” Danse’s smirk lifted a little closer to a smile as he tapped their glasses together. “Cheers.” </p><p> </p><p>The whiskey was semi-decent and high-octane enough to do the trick. The bracing taste of alcohol had the same effect on Nick as cigarettes, relaxation and calm inspired purely by memories that weren’t even his. The drink also took the edge off Danse, who settled in and looked less likely to shoot the first person who moved wrong. Maybe 30% less likely. It was progress all the same.</p><p> </p><p>Magnolia continued her set with a few more songs, then excused herself to take a break at the bar. The crowd all politely applauded, no matter how drunk, high, or completely miserable they were.</p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely beautiful.” Nick pulled out a cigarette. “Mags is a hell of a singer.” </p><p> </p><p>“She’s a talented performer,” Danse remarked. “I’ve heard her songs on the radio before, but it’s quite a different experience live.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing in the world like live music. You a jazz fan?” </p><p> </p><p>“Not particularly. I prefer country-western and bluegrass.”</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, that answer was at once surprising and completely appropriate. “That’s an interesting preference. Don’t hear much of that on Diamond City Radio.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nor back in the Capital Wasteland. I first heard it when I joined the Brotherhood.” </p><p> </p><p>“They’ve got bluegrass bands?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse chuckled. “Archives. Extensive collections of media-- books, magazines, holotapes. When I was an Initiate stationed at the Citadel, access to the archives was a privilege rewarded for good conduct.” </p><p> </p><p>“So you were there often, I bet.” </p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely. Whenever I had downtime. I’d read books and historical records, or listen to the holotapes. After my… after the childhood I remembered, I knew how valuable the opportunity was. I wanted to learn and experience everything I could.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse rested his chin on his fist, his gaze far away as though lost in a distant memory. “There were a good many recordings gathered from out west. Such a different sound from what they played on Galaxy News Radio. The tone of the guitars and vocals. Stories about outlaws, wanderers, good men fighting for justice. There was one song, ‘In the Shadow of the Valley,’ that truly…” </p><p> </p><p>He smiled. “Perhaps it sounds ridiculous, but it had a powerful evocative effect on me. The lyrics and instrumentation painted a picture in my head. Spoke to some… longing inside, for places I’ve never been and things I’ve never seen. Nostalgia for open spaces, and nature, and a simpler time, long past. I’ve been fascinated by the genre ever since.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s downright poetic.” And a charming thought-- a younger, or at least a more innocent Danse growing enamored with old cowboy songs. “Must’ve been something else, suddenly having all that at your fingertips.” </p><p> </p><p>“It was.” Danse’s smile turned a bit wistful. “Like I’d found the greatest treasures left in the world. Of all the tech I ever recovered, of all the weapons and machines I got to learn, nothing has ever come close to the value of those archives.” </p><p> </p><p>“I bet.” Nick still had memories of the time when music and books and even movies were commonplace and easy to take for granted. For somebody post-war to suddenly discover even a fraction of what had been lost… he honestly couldn’t imagine.</p><p> </p><p>As they kept an eye out around the bar for any sign of their quarry, they dared to continue chatting. And as it turned out, Nick didn’t need to worry about the conversation turning dire or awkward. Between the calm atmosphere, the music, and Danse catching the very slightest of buzzes, it was downright pleasant. </p><p> </p><p>Nick told him about the Boston that was before the war, more specifically the area of Scollay Square. Then he relayed a few misadventures he’d had working cases in Goodneighbor-- but only the ones he could recall with happy endings. Neither of them needed to dwell on the alternative right now.</p><p> </p><p>In turn, Danse talked a little more about the Capital Wasteland, his recollections of “growing up” and being stationed there. Washington DC was even more blown-out and wrecked than Boston, a desolate landscape still recovering. But like the Commonwealth, things were taking a turn for the better. Order and safety, provided by the Brotherhood. A massive purifier that turned the irradiated Potomac River into clean, pure water for all. Things weren’t perfect, but they were improving. They were stable. They were making progress. </p><p> </p><p>“That was the same thing Elder Maxson had in mind for the Commonwealth. Stability. Progress,” Danse mused. “I wholeheartedly believe he is sincere in that goal. But good intentions aren’t enough. The outside perception has been mixed, and I can’t argue how questionable some find their methods, and their…” he tripped briefly over the word “execution.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Not to mention the bigotry </em>, Nick added mentally. He wouldn’t say one word aloud about the Brotherhood, as clearly Danse was still working through his thoughts and feelings about his former allegiance. It was surprising enough to hear even mild criticism out of the guy. </p><p> </p><p>Meanwhile, business continued as usual in the Third Rail. People came and went. They drank and smoked and laughed and talked. Two patrons fell asleep on one of the couches, Ham came downstairs to throw a guy out for starting a fight, and Magnolia went on singing. Nick and Danse took turns buying the drinks, with Danse diligently alternating his with water to keep from overindulging. It was several hours before anything of note occurred. </p><p> </p><p>At about a quarter to five, a woman came down the stairs, dressed in a worn canvas jacket and jeans. Buzz-cut red hair. A scar on her forehead. She wore a pair of dark glasses and had a huge, toothy grin on as she headed to the bar. </p><p> </p><p>“There she is,” said Nick. He stood up immediately and casually headed to the bar in the hopes of eavesdropping. </p><p> </p><p>It worked out better than expected, as it turned out Ms. Alfie Garrison had a loud, boisterous, mildly grating voice. “Charliiiiiiiie! Hook me up, and keep ‘em comin’!” </p><p> </p><p>“I thought Mayor Hancock told you to peddle your poison elsewhere.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey now, I ain’t sellin’ today, I’m meeting a client.”</p><p> </p><p>“I see any chems change hands and you’re out on your arse, Alfie.” </p><p> </p><p>“What did I just say? It’s a meeting. So if somebody asks for ‘Hansen’, send ‘em my way, will you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Do I look like your bloody secretary?”</p><p> </p><p>“Charliiiiiie…” </p><p> </p><p>She argued with Whitechapel for a moment, then with an armful of beers went to the opposite corner, propping her feet up as she flopped back on a couch.</p><p> </p><p>Nick ordered a bottle of water at the bar and brought it back to his seat. He handed it to Danse, who was currently glaring daggers at Alfie, his eyes narrowed and his lip curling with disgust. </p><p> </p><p>“Easy, tiger.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s her, without question.” Danse glanced at Nick. “How do we proceed?”</p><p> </p><p>“She’s here to meet a client. ‘Hansen.’ Seems to be some kind of codename,” said Nick. “If she’s to the point of using codenames, she’s not gonna be forthcoming with the intel we need. Asked Chuck to direct the person to her. Suggests she doesn’t know what the client looks like.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. An astute observation.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks.” Nick watched Alfie sitting on her couch for a moment, then slowly trailed his gaze back to Danse. The gears were turning in his head. “Think I’ve got a crazy idea.” </p><p> </p><p>“What is it?” </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe we can talk to her and pose as her client.” </p><p> </p><p>“Then perhaps she would be more open with her information.” Danse nodded slowly. “Excellent suggestion.” </p><p> </p><p>“One small hitch though.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> You </em> have to pose as the client.” </p><p> </p><p>“Me?” Danse’s eyes widened. “Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, for one thing.” Nick held up his skeletal hand and wiggled the fingers. “You need a bloodstream to be a chem user.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse opened his mouth to protest, but winced at the realization that Nick was right. A deep and powerful scowl etched itself on his mouth. “I don’t know if you’ve picked up on this, Valentine, but I’m a dreadful liar.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not lying. It’s acting,” Nick corrected. “Not that you’d be any better at either…”</p><p> </p><p>There was no point in getting offended about something blatantly obvious, or at least so Danse seemed to believe. “I never thought I’d see the day I’d be participating in a chem deal for subterfuge,” he grumbled.  </p><p> </p><p>“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” </p><p> </p><p>“All I can do is try my best.” Danse sighed heavily. “What should I ask?” </p><p> </p><p>Nick proceeded to coach him for the next five minutes, preparing a story if he needed one and questions if he had the chance. Danse repeated it all as seriously as if he was called upon to recite the Brotherhood’s stupid litany from memory.. </p><p> </p><p>Three more practice rounds later, he resolutely stood. “Let’s get this over with.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be listening. Just keep your cool and keep it short.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick left first, heading to one of the other seating areas closer to where Alfie was lounging. He loitered about as though he was distracted watching Magnolia.</p><p> </p><p>Meanwhile, Danse went to the bar. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Hansen.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, for god’s sake. Over there.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse made his way over to Alfie’s couch. Nick watched out of the corner of his eye, and tuned his audio sensors to pick up the conversation as best he could. </p><p> </p><p>“Good evening, ma’am.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey there, tall ‘n’ broody. Who are you lookin’ for?” </p><p> </p><p>“Hansen.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ahaah. You must be new. Where does Vaughn keep digging you big boys up?” Alfie tilted her head back as though to admire his height. “Cute, too. You’re not another fucking trigger-happy asshole, are you?” </p><p> </p><p>“I-- no,” said Danse. “I don’t believe so.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well thank God. Have a seat.” </p><p> </p><p>“No thank you. I would prefer to stand.” </p><p> </p><p>“Whatever. Anyway, change of plans. The shit’s all ready, but I don’t have it on me.” </p><p> </p><p>“It?” </p><p> </p><p>“Your shipment? Thirty doses of T?” </p><p> </p><p>“Twilight?” </p><p> </p><p>“C’mon, big boy, keep up.” Alfie snapped her fingers. “Jeez, is it supposed to be for you? Maybe you better lay off a little.” </p><p> </p><p>“Certainly not. I-- I’m simply here for our established meeting.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, <em> somebody </em>should lay off. You guys are buying it faster than we can make it. And like I said, change of plans. You’ll have to go get it from Marquis.” </p><p> </p><p>“Marquis?” </p><p> </p><p>“West alley of the State House, at 6 sharp. Be there quick. He’s not gonna wait around.”</p><p> </p><p>“Very well.” </p><p> </p><p>“No Watch, no guns, no more casualties. Anybody bleeds, and Marowski’s coming for Vaughn. Your caps aren’t <em> that </em>good, and he’s tired of toeing your boss’ line. You clear?” </p><p> </p><p>“It is clear. I understand.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good.” Alfie grinned. “Then maybe when you’re done you can come back and see me. I do love me a tall drink of water.” </p><p> </p><p>“I believe the bartender sells it, ma’am,” said Danse. “Goodbye.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick met him back at their seats, sliding down into his armchair. He felt the need to encourage him with the first and only compliment that came to mind. “Well, you kept it short.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse sank on the edge of the couch, scowling. “I don’t remember the last time I ever felt so stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>“You did fine. And she said plenty,” said Nick. “We’ve got a name. ‘Vaughn.’ And they’ve got human-looking employees who’ve been doing the chem deals for them.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s all very fascinating. But how can we be certain this has anything to do with our suspect?” asked Danse. “We may have gotten involved in something completely irrelevant.” </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe we have. But thirty doses is a hell of a lot of chems for just anyone to be buying on the regular.” Nick shook his head. “It wouldn’t hurt to look into it, ask this ‘Marquis’ guy what he knows. If we strike out, we find another angle.” </p><p> </p><p>“Very well.” Danse sighed. “What time is it?” </p><p> </p><p>“Quarter to six. We’ve got fifteen minutes.” Nick had a quick look around the bar. “Just to be safe, let’s leave separately. Head out and wait for me outside. I’ll be along in a few minutes.” </p><p> </p><p>“Roger that.”  Danse stood up and made his way to the stairs. </p><p> </p><p>As he rounded the corner, another man collided with him, bumping him hard with his shoulder. Danse jostled and turned around, glaring. </p><p> </p><p>Everything about the man screamed “merc,” from his black leather jacket to the holstered pistol on his hip. He had a worn, reddened face beneath a bushy brown beard, with his head shaved into a crewcut. He sneered at Danse so viciously that for a moment Nick was worried they’d come to blows. Their silent, oozing masculine standoff came to a peaceful end when Danse shook his head and continued up the steps. The merc huffed and continued into the bar. Just a garden-variety Goodneighbor jerk, throwing his weight around, trying to be the hard guy. </p><p> </p><p>Nick waited another minute or so before leaving as well. He walked around the corner and up the stairs, past Ham and out the door. He found Danse immediately on the other side of the alley, but he wasn’t alone. </p><p> </p><p>Danse stood against the wall looking a bit like a startled, cornered animal. Standing too close to him and drawing even closer was a pretty fair-skinned blonde in a green raincoat. Her body language was flirtatious, her voice sultry and suggestive.</p><p> </p><p>“Aw, don’t be like that, sugar. Come have a drink with me.” </p><p> </p><p>“No thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” She set her hand on his bicep. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t touch me, please.” Danse pushed her hand away and stepped out from the wall. “I said no.” </p><p> </p><p>“Problem?” asked Nick, loud enough to be sure she heard him. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” said Danse. “Let’s go.” With a sharp glare at the woman, he joined Nick and they headed off, leaving her pouting by the wall. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The west alley behind the State House somehow seemed even more lonely and isolated than the rest. In reality, there was a good chance this alley might be better supervised than the others. After all, Hancock lived in the State House and would no doubt hear any horrified screaming if someone were to be murdered out back. </p><p> </p><p>On the other hand, you probably learned to tune out that kind of noise when you lived in Goodneighbor. </p><p> </p><p>To the north, the alley led back to Scollay Square. To the south, it rounded a corner back towards the entrance of Goodneighbor. There was at least a doorway alcove halfway down the alley, a place for them to slip in where they wouldn’t be instantly spotted from either direction. </p><p> </p><p>Danse watched the south. Nick watched the north. They waited in tense silence to see who would show up. </p><p> </p><p>At precisely 6:03, a man approached from the south. He was tall and slim, tan-skinned and gray-haired with a handlebar mustache, dressed in a mended suit and shaking in utter terror. There was a crate tucked under his arm, and a pistol in his hands. He backed up against the alley wall and looked around frantically. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll talk to him,” Nick said as softly as he could. “Stay back here and on your guard.” </p><p> </p><p>“Roger that.” Danse had his rifle out and hot. </p><p> </p><p>Nick took a moment to settle whatever passed for his nerves, then stepped out of the alcove. </p><p> </p><p>The man with the crate jumped in fear, pointing his gun at him and backing up. “What the hell are you?” </p><p> </p><p>“You Marquis?” asked Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck!” He exhaled hard and loud, lowering the gun. “Don’t fucking scare me like that!” </p><p> </p><p>“Settle down, pal. I’m not going to hurt you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Who the fuck are you?” Marquis demanded. “I was expecting Bryce.” </p><p> </p><p>“Bryce, huh? Who’s Bryce?” </p><p> </p><p>“Who’s--” The question made Marquis’ face sink into an expression of utter horror. “Oh my god. Oh my god. I’m so fucking dead.” </p><p> </p><p>“Calm the hell down and take a breath. Let’s talk.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t wanna talk!” Marquis shot back. “I want to get rid of this fucking crate and get the fuck out of here!” </p><p> </p><p>“When did Marowski’s guys get so jumpy?” Nick muttered. “Put the gun away.” </p><p> </p><p>Marquis did not put the gun away. He pointed it directly at Nick’s face. “Get the fuck out of here or I’ll put another hole in your face, you fucking synth!” </p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Danse appeared from the alcove, his rifle hot and humming and aimed at the anxious gangster.</p><p> </p><p>That did it. Marquis let out a horrified shriek, throwing the crate of chems to the ground and hitting the deck. He dropped to his knees. “No! Please! Please, don’t hurt me! I’ll tell you anything you want, just don’t fucking--” </p><p> </p><p>“We’re not gonna hurt you, so long as you don’t do anything stupid,” Nick snapped. “Now for God’s sake, settle down and drop the gun.” </p><p> </p><p>Marquis set the gun down and put his hands up. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you. Now,” Nick began diplomatically. “I don’t want anything to do with you, or Marowski, or those chems. I want answers.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t have any answers!” Marquis moaned. “This isn’t even my real job! I’m Marowski’s fucking accountant!” </p><p> </p><p>“Then why are you delivering chems?” </p><p> </p><p>“Because the last guy got his brains splattered all over the alley!”</p><p> </p><p>“By who?” </p><p> </p><p>“Bryce!” Marquis whimpered. “And now he’s gonna do the same to me! Oh, god. Oh god--” </p><p> </p><p>“Will you relax? I need you to calm down and tell me about Vaughn.” </p><p> </p><p>“Vaughn? I don’t know anything! Nobody does!” Marquis whined. “Nobody’s ever met ‘em! Bryce runs their errands, and they’re buying up the Twilight as fast as we can make it. They pay well, and Marowski wants the caps, and never you damn well mind if a few of your best guys get shot on the way. Fifteen years. Doin’ his books for fifteen years and this is how he repays me--” </p><p> </p><p>Marquis drifted off into terrified babbling. Nick met Danse’s gaze briefly, then they both looked back down at the cowering accountant on the ground. </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s make a deal, Marquis,” said Nick. “Take your chems and get out of here.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p>“I told you, I don’t want your chems. I want information. So let’s compromise. You take your leave. Then I’m coming to pay you a visit at midnight tonight, in the lobby of the Hotel Rexford. You bring me everything you can find about Vaughn. Every transaction, every correspondence, every damn scrap Marowski’s got.”</p><p> </p><p>Marquis exhaled sharply. “You want that kind of dirt, you’re gonna have to deal with the boss.” </p><p> </p><p>“Then bring him too,” said Nick. “We’ll have a slumber party.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve gotta be kidding me. He’s not going to like this.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re not going to like me breaking your nose,” snapped Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, okay! Deal!” Marquis put his hands up even higher, if possible. “Midnight in the lobby! Done!” </p><p> </p><p>“Pleasure doing business with you, Marquis.” Nick stepped back, and motioned to Danse to do the same. </p><p> </p><p>Just as Marquis moved to stand up, a gunshot rang out. Marquis screamed in pain, clutching his shoulder and falling on the street in a heap. </p><p> </p><p>“Marquis, you little fucking snitch.” </p><p> </p><p>The merc from the bar stood on the south side of the alley, smoke trailing from his magnum handgun. He stepped closer to the fallen Marquis, training his weapon between Nick and Danse. “What do we have here? A couple of chumps trying to take what isn’t theirs?” </p><p> </p><p>“You must be Bryce,” said Nick.   </p><p> </p><p>The merc chuckled, pointing his gun at Marquis. “Who the fuck are you?” </p><p> </p><p>“We’re asking the questions here,” snapped Danse. His rifle followed Bryce. “Drop the weapon.” </p><p> </p><p>“You first.” Bryce sneered. “Or don’t. See how fast I can fill all three of you fuckers full of holes.” </p><p> </p><p>“Bryce--” Marquis croaked from the ground. “Please. Please, I didn’t-- I didn’t tell them anything--” </p><p> </p><p>“I heard enough.” Bryce growled, putting his gun to Marquis’ head. “You were ready to roll over like a kicked mutt. Between you and that idiot Garrison, everybody in town’s going to hear about it.” </p><p> </p><p>“About Vaughn?” Nick asked sharply, mockingly. “You trying to keep that name secret? Would you prefer ‘Exile?’” </p><p> </p><p>Bryce’s eyes widened with unmistakable recognition. He turned to Nick and pointed his gun. Just as he wanted. He could take a bullet far better than Danse or Marquis, and one shot would be plenty of time for Danse to fire back in kind. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, aren’t you nosy?” Bryce sneered. “Nick fuckin’ Valentine, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Cut the hard act, pal. We’re onto your little kidnap and chop shop routine.” Nick narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you tell us the full story, and we can skip all the violence?” </p><p> </p><p>“Figures, a fucking synth would stick its ugly face into our business.” He grinned, aiming directly between Nick’s eyes and putting a finger on the trigger. “You freaks have done enough to my angel. Now you’re gonna--” </p><p> </p><p>A laser fired, a bolt of blue. Bryce screamed, his knee buckling forward to send him down on his knees. In the alley behind him stood a familiar scrawny figure with shaggy hair, and an Institute pistol shakily pointing at the merc. </p><p> </p><p>Ran cracked a toothy grin at Nick and Danse. He opened his mouth to say something, but there was a flash of metal. Bryce aimed over his shoulder, straight at the kid-- </p><p> </p><p>Danse opened fire and a hail of red lasers flashed through the alley. Ran flattened to the street and the shots peppered Bryce’s jacket. The merc grunted in pain and fell on his side, his handgun clattering to the street. </p><p> </p><p>Ran pushed himself up off the ground, eyes wide, face bloodless. </p><p> </p><p>“You all right, son?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“I-- yeah.” The teenager nodded quickly. “Not hurt.” </p><p> </p><p>“Following us again, huh?” Nick asked. “Great timing.” </p><p> </p><p>“Outstanding,” Danse agreed. “Exemplary calm under pressure.” He reached into his bag and pulled out his case of caps, this time handing the entire thing over to Ran. </p><p> </p><p>“You guys looked like you were walking into something.” The teenager grinned, rattling the case with glee. “And I-- oh, shit!” </p><p> </p><p>Bryce was up. He’d staggered to his feet and broke into a limping run, bolting out of the alley as fast as he could. </p><p> </p><p>But Danse was off like a shot, running after him in hot pursuit. Turned out the big guy had some speed on him when he wasn’t weighed down with several hundred pounds of power armor.</p><p> </p><p>“Ran, do me a favor. Call the Watch over here and get this guy some help,” said Nick, gesturing back at the now-fainted Marquis. “Tell ‘em what happened.” </p><p> </p><p>Ran shoved the case into his jacket pocket and did what Nick interpreted to be a clumsy salute. “Yes sir.” </p><p> </p><p>“Take care, kid.” With a friendly tip of his hat, Nick was off. </p><p> </p><p>He raced through the square in time to see Danse at the end of another alley, running up a ramp of garbage and making an impressive vault over the outer wall. Nick thought his own attempt to replicate it was still rather impressive, if not quite as graceful. </p><p> </p><p>Outside, he spotted Danse up ahead and hurried after him. In the distance, Bryce’s silhouette was limping away as fast as he could. </p><p> </p><p>They followed their best lead yet into the dark Boston night. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Bryce led them on a twisted route westward, winding through the heavily wrecked streets in the heart of downtown. It would have been easy for them to lose sight of him in the rubble, the wreckage, the many blocks populated by super mutant encampments, but they were fortunate. Bryce seemed focused on reaching a particular destination as quickly as he could, and his injured leg kept him slow enough that they could keep up. Eventually, they dropped back enough to hopefully give him a false sense of security, making him think he’d lost them. </p><p> </p><p>They emerged along the east side of the Charles River, near one of the broken bridges that spanned its width. For a moment Nick feared they’d actually lost their quarry, but he spotted movement to the north. Bryce vanished into a side door of a tall brick building that overlooked the river. </p><p> </p><p>“Look,” said Danse, gesturing up. A radio broadcast tower and dishes stood tall on the roof of the building, scaffolding supporting a series of wires hanging from the top. </p><p> </p><p>“Now <em> this </em>is more the setup I had in mind.” Somebody hoping to broadcast radio commands to hijacked synths would need a tower like that. “Nice of Bryce to lead us right to it.” </p><p> </p><p>“He’s either a fool, or this is a trap.” Danse kept his rifle in hand as they approached the building. “He wouldn’t retreat to this location unless he had a reason, such as an ambush or defenses prepared inside.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick tested the door that Bryce had entered. It opened easily, still unlocked. </p><p> </p><p>“Slow and steady,” said Danse under his breath. “Head on a swivel. Watch under your feet.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick pulled out his own rifle as they stepped through the door and into a corner hallway around the exterior of the building. The worn framed pictures on the walls all held advertisements for old television programs. WBTN. He faintly recalled the station from the depths of Nick’s memories. This must have been their old studio and broadcasting headquarters. </p><p> </p><p>Not ten feet down the hall, the telltale thunk of electronic maglocks sounded from the door behind them. </p><p> </p><p>“Trap,” Nick sighed, and heard Danse say it simultaneously.</p><p> </p><p>So now the question was what <em> kind </em>of trap they were walking into. </p><p> </p><p>The fluorescent lights in the ceiling still barely worked, flickering on and off irregularly. Trailing across the tile up ahead of them was a dribble of blood, leading on. </p><p> </p><p>The hallway came to an end, opening up in a large two-story lobby and reception area with the remains of a chandelier hanging on tattered wires up above the desk. It probably would have been lovely in its prime, but Nick didn’t allow himself to focus on it. </p><p> </p><p>Far more pressing was the veritable mob of synths throughout the lobby. Gen-1s, gen-2s in various states of disarray, synths missing arms and portions of their heads, sporting massive holes through their chests. There were nearly 30 of them in neat rows along the walls, the waiting area, even in front of the barred main door. They didn’t move. They didn’t react. They only stood at perfect attention, still and silent, dozens of glowing eyes staring off into space as Nick and Danse stepped into the room, moving their guns defensively. </p><p> </p><p>“Get ready to fall back into the hall,” Danse whispered. “Perfect chokepoint to fight this many.” </p><p> </p><p>A shrill electronic noise suddenly sounded from a PA system overhead. It blared out a strange pattern of beeps and clicks, and the synths all suddenly turned their heads to look directly at Nick and Danse. </p><p> </p><p>Then the PA crackled again, and a distorted, unidentifiable voice spoke. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>M7-97. How nice of you to come to me.</b>” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I don't like to sit around and gripe about what Bethesda did or didn't do or could have done or should have done, but the fact the Sole can't tell Nick (or anyone else) about the Institute and their shitty embarrassment of a son* is my #1 gripe with the plot of Fallout 4. That twist hit me like a truck and the inability to seek solace from my toaster boyfriend felt like the truck then knocked me face-first into a wall. I'm trying to spin it here where Nora is so beset by grief and guilt and uncertainty she can't bring herself to be forthright with Nick (or Danse) about it, at least not yet. That conversation would be an entire other fic in itself. </p><p>I find Danse's canonical love of country-western adorable and appropriate.  I debated which New Vegas song to cameo but settled on that one for the evocative natural imagery. "Big Iron" a very close second. He's absolutely the type who'd love white-hat cowboy ballads, good vs evil gunfights and TV shows like "Have Gun Will Travel." (Look it up.)</p><p>* At least you can tell your shitty embarrassment of a son that he's a shitty embarrassment. That's SOME comfort for me. </p><p> </p><p>Next chapter: A devil, an angel, a siren, and a reckoning with the Brotherhood.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Riders In The Sky</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An old "friend," a ruse, a siren, and the death of Paladin Danse.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The elevator doors opened with a dull clunk. Danse looked up from the half-dismantled telephone on the workbench. With one smooth motion he exchanged the screwdriver in his hand for the nearby rifle, flicked off the safety, and turned to greet the encroacher with weapons hot.</p><p> </p><p>A laser pistol emerged first, and Scribe Haylen after it. She was soaked, her hat, uniform, and heavy backpack damp from the rain. Her head swiveled as she scanned the bunker for threats. All she would find was the tense, armed figure of her former commanding officer in the corner. She trained her pistol on him out of reflex. Perfect stance, perfect poise-- she’d improved a lot since first joining Squad Gladius, since coming under his guidance. </p><p> </p><p>For one brief and terrible moment he envisioned her sneering, calling him a monster and shooting him dead. For one brief and terrible moment he wished she would. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh my God.” Haylen dropped her guard, shoved her pistol into its holster and rushed to him. “Danse!”</p><p> </p><p>He lowered his rifle and Haylen threw herself at him. She hugged him tight and exhaled shakily against his chest. His rifle was slowly set aside on the workbench, freeing his arms to nervously wind around her in return. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re alive.” Haylen murmured. “God. I’m so glad you’re alive.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse swallowed around a lump in his throat. “You didn’t know?” </p><p> </p><p>“I knew. I got your message.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes misty. “But I had to-- had to see for myself.” </p><p> </p><p>It was difficult to parse the way she looked at him. He would understand judgment, hatred. Disdain for a cruel mockery of humanity, this loathsome lab-grown shell of a thing. Or if not open contempt, he could understand intrigue. An examination, pulling him apart with her eyes to see if she could spot the obvious tells that had fooled them all-- even Danse himself. </p><p> </p><p>Haylen did neither. She looked at him the way she always had, with warmth, admiration, respect-- as though nothing had happened. As though everything he ever was hadn’t been torn away, and she wasn’t looking at the tattered shreds of him. As though she wasn’t committing treason by not putting him out of his misery. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay?” she asked. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m alive.” It was the only truthful thing he could say. </p><p> </p><p>Her smile was gently chiding, the same look she gave him when he shrugged off her medical advice or tried to walk off a wound. “Of course.” </p><p> </p><p>She let him go, dropping back to look around the bunker. “This is pretty cozy, actually. From what Paladin Carter said I expected a dirty cellar.” Idly, she took off her backpack and her hat and set them both down on one of the computer chairs. “Not bad at all.” </p><p> </p><p>“Do you have permission to be away from the police station?” </p><p> </p><p>“Expected back to Cambridge tomorrow morning, sir.” Haylen ran her fingers through her dampened ginger hair. ”I’m on a scouting mission.”</p><p> </p><p>She still called him “sir.” He didn’t have it in him to discourage her. “To what destination?” </p><p> </p><p>“Does it really matter?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, it does.” It was still easy for him to slip into his commander persona, like putting on a uniform. “You shouldn’t be delaying your mission for a side trip. It’s dangerous if no one can identify your location and route.” </p><p> </p><p>“I caught a vertibird,” said Haylen. “They’re picking me up from the settlement to the north tomorrow. Twenty minutes’ walk from here. I’m perfectly safe.” </p><p> </p><p>“Furthermore,” and this was the actual crux of the matter, “I told you I’m not allowed to speak with anyone from the Brotherhood.” </p><p> </p><p>Haylen opened her backpack. “Frankly, sir? I don’t care.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse frowned deeply. “That’s blatant insubordination, Scribe. I won’t be the cause of your disobedience.” </p><p> </p><p>“With all due respect, sir,” she said with a smile, “you’re not the boss of me.” </p><p> </p><p>If he <em> was </em>still her CO, she’d be doing pushups and laundry for such flippancy. His vexation was certainly showing on his brow. “Elder’s orders, Haylen.” </p><p> </p><p>“He doesn’t need to know.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Haylen </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not leaving, Danse. If it makes you feel better, we’ll consider this a social call,” she said, scowling at him. “Now stop fussing at me before you sprain something. I brought you some supplies.” </p><p>   </p><p>Haylen settled in for a longer visit and set to preparing a can of soup over his newly-constructed fire pit. Danse had never been particularly good at small talk, and Haylen didn’t push him into any. Nor did she discourage him when the conversation turned, naturally, to the Brotherhood.  He peppered her with questions about recent missions, tech retrievals, engineering developments, reinforcement efforts at the police station. Triumphant battles won against ferals and raiders and mutants all around the Commonwealth. </p><p> </p><p>For a while, everything felt normal. Scribe Haylen giving report, briefing him on everything he’d missed out in the field. If he used his imagination, he could envision the police station around them. Rhys and Keane having one of their frequent pissing matches. Brach and Dawes tinkering, coming up from the garage bay to look for parts or tools. Worwick jokingly serenading the others along with the radio. Recon Squad Gladius, alive and well and under the careful watch of their commander, Paladin Danse.</p><p> </p><p>It was a comforting daydream, for as long as it lasted. Reality began to bleed in at the corners, like dark stains seeping through fabric. Keane, Brach, Dawes, and Worwick were all dead. He and Haylen weren’t at the police station, but down in this abandoned bunker meeting in secret, hiding like rats. And Danse was no longer a Paladin, no longer anything but a disgrace. An abomination spared, still deciding if his continued existence was cruel or merciful.</p><p> </p><p>Haylen’s report wasn’t normal, either. She dutifully answered what she could, but her eyes kept skimming around the bunker. Her foot wiggled nervously, her heel tapping against the ground. Perhaps, he reasoned, she was uncomfortable sharing all this information with a now-outsider. But the longer they talked, it came off as though she was afraid he would ask the wrong question. As though there was something she wanted to hide. </p><p> </p><p>At last, when he’d been updated on the status of every project, every mission, every initiative he could recall, he had only one more thing to ask. “Has anyone said anything about me?”</p><p> </p><p>Haylen’s eyes darted away. A frown crossed her mouth, and she hesitated one second too long before answering. “It doesn’t matter.” </p><p> </p><p>They pulled out two of the computer chairs and ate their dinner to the friendly chatter of the radio. Soup, some kind of vaguely ham and bean-flavored mush. Crackers, the bland razorgrain-meal discs standard in field rations. Two Nuka-Colas, plain and cherry (he let Haylen have the cherry, since it was her favorite.) </p><p> </p><p>It was simple, hot, and satisfying. It felt enough like the meals they shared at Cambridge to keep pretending everything was normal. Sitting around the lobby after a long day out. Brach humming to the radio as he ate. Keane stuffily using a bandana like a napkin. Worwick getting teased for his culinary ineptitude. Danse scolding Dawes and Rhys for chewing with their mouths open. </p><p> </p><p>Haylen had actually brought an entire satchel of provisions for him, food and water she swore up and down she didn’t take from the supply depot-- it was all gathered with Paladin Carter’s help. A kind gesture, and welcome news. Danse had been subsisting on whatever looked edible in the bunker’s ration closet, which had thus far been only stale water, six boxes of cereal, and two cans of Cram. (He also simply neglected to eat many days. Most days.)</p><p> </p><p>“She also…” Haylen hesitated, pulling a large canvas sack out of her backpack. “The Paladin sent along your things.” </p><p> </p><p>“My things?” </p><p> </p><p>“From your quarters. She-- well, they’re hers now.” </p><p> </p><p>He frowned. Of course his quarters were no longer his, but it startled him to hear they’d been granted directly to Nora. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, especially after all that happened, but there lingered an unpleasant feeling of vulnerability. She had the liberty to sort through his personal effects, to explore his private space and judge his life without his presence. </p><p> </p><p>For all his discomfort, Danse’s personal effects were mostly quite boring and practical. His clothes, his shaving and hygiene kit, his tools. A bottle of whiskey and some glasses, spare parts for his rifle, fusion cells, the few books he’d collected over the years. </p><p> </p><p>There were really only two items he’d consider deeply personal in the lot. The first was a Brotherhood insignia patch with frayed remnants of stitching around the edges. He was relieved to find it tucked inside one of the books. It had once been affixed to Cutler’s uniform. </p><p> </p><p>The second was an unassuming old holotape with “CONFIDENTIAL: DN-407K” scribbled on the label. Danse exhaled sharply when he pulled it out of the sack. Back at the Citadel archives, the newly-appointed Knight Danse had done a few favors for one of the senior scribes. A few parts from a list, some copper wire, and an afternoon assisting with repairs to a holotape recorder. In thanks, Scribe Oda copied some recordings of the music Danse was always checking out from the archives. Marty Robbins. Kay Kyser. Johnny Bond. Katie Thompson. Lost Weekend Western Swing Band. </p><p> </p><p>Having possession of an unapproved archive holotape was the closest Danse came to breaking the rules in his entire career (barring certain recent... improprieties.) He took a healthy amount of rebellious pleasure in the harmless breach of protocol, and his love of the music outweighed the guilt. Yet he still kept the tape well-hidden in his quarters, and was honestly shocked to see it again. </p><p> </p><p>Danse set the tape aside, anticipating listening to it after Haylen had gone. “It was kind of you to bring me all this.” He did his best to smile at her, the first he’d managed since she arrived. “Thank you.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome, sir.” Haylen gestured at one of the radios among the computer equipment. “Do you mind if I mess with one of these?” </p><p> </p><p>“Help yourself.” Danse went back to digging through the sack. “For what purpose?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to set up a masked frequency for us. Paladin Carter and I have been in touch, but if you need something and she’s busy, you can call me.” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t need to go to that trouble for me.” </p><p> </p><p>“I know. But I’m going to.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse foresaw the uselessness of reminding her about Maxson’s orders, but was about to make an attempt all the same. He was distracted when his fingers brushed metal at the bottom of the sack.. A long chain, a thin plate. </p><p> </p><p>Holotags. DN-407P. Danse. Paladin. He’d worn these tags every day of his life for the past decade, and they’d never been so alien as they were resting in his palm now. An anxious knife slid into his gut. </p><p> </p><p>“Why are these here? I gave them to Carter.” Set them in her hand on that nightmare of a day, two weeks ago. She was meant to use them to prove she’d executed him, but that plan had gotten interrupted by Elder Maxson paying a personal visit to check her work. </p><p> </p><p>Still, someone should have taken them. The Brotherhood used holotags to track the names and deeds of the fallen in the scrolls back at the Citadel. “They need to put these with the others, to record…” </p><p> </p><p>He looked up at Haylen, but drifted off. Her brows were knitted together, lips pressed with indignance and regret. She looked away, but her expression told him everything. </p><p> </p><p>They didn’t need his holotags. They weren’t going to be recorded in the scrolls. His name wouldn’t be listed among the honored dead, his fallen brothers and sisters. </p><p> </p><p>Danse wasn’t honored. He wasn’t even dead. He was a machine. </p><p> </p><p>Something can’t die if it was never alive.</p><p> </p><p>The knife in his gut twisted, and kept twisting as it all drained away. Pride. Dignity. A decade of service, of sacrifice, of pain and tears, a decade of his heart beating and bleeding unquestionable loyalty to the Brotherhood. All gone, like it had never mattered at all. </p><p> </p><p>This was all that remained of Paladin Danse. A synthetic body, grown in a lab, a machine too broken to realize what it was. This was his legacy. A rank stripped, a name forgotten, a pair of holotags nobody wanted. </p><p> </p><p>Just as he started. Just as he was created to be. Nothing. </p><p> </p><p>When he came out of the fugue, Haylen stood in front of him, glaring fiercely. “I don’t care about the scrolls. I don’t care what the Elder says. You’re everything the Brotherhood should be. You’re the goddamn best of us, sir, and what they’ve done to you-- it makes me <em> sick </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>She clasped his shoulders, squeezing tight. Her voice trembled, at once pleading and resolute. “There are people who believe in you, people whose lives you’ve touched, and we will never forget what you did for us. I don’t care if you’re a synth. You’re Danse.”</p><p> </p><p>He let his head slump, forehead resting at her chest. His eyes watered, but he was too exhausted to cry. Too exhausted to even think. Was it possible to be too exhausted to exist?</p><p> </p><p>“You’re Danse.” Haylen cradled his head to hold him close. “That’s all that should goddamn matter. That’s what matters to me.”</p><p> </p><p>Months back, on one of their first scouting ventures out of Cambridge, Recon Squad Gladius had been ambushed by raiders. It was the least costly of their increasingly disastrous missions, and only barely at that. Late in the scuffle, Scribe Haylen ended up in the path of a bouncing grenade. Paladin Danse thundered in, shoved her back, and stood like a bulwark between her and the blast. The explosion gave Haylen some minor cuts and left a few nasty scuffs in the back of Danse’s power armor, but his intervention had unquestionably saved her life. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t until they returned to the police station and Danse stepped out of his frame that anyone noticed the blood. It soaked through his black hair, trickling down the back of his head and neck and into the collar of his jumpsuit. A nasty cut, likely from the helmet jostling in the blast. (“Even superficial wounds to the head and scalp tend to bleed heavily, and look worse than they truly are,” he’d said. </p><p> </p><p>“Paladin, I’ll give you a <em> real </em>head wound if you don’t sit down,” Haylen had snapped.)</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, she got him to surrender for treatment. The cut was at a funny angle, and she expressed doubt in his ability to hold still without fretting about his squad for five minutes. So just like this, she held him and tended the cut with skillful hands.</p><p> </p><p>He could envision the police station around them. Rhys and Keane, picking salvageable pieces out of what was left of Keane’s armor. Brach and Dawes cooking up enough rations for everyone. Worwick wrapping his arm in gauze. Recon Squad Gladius, alive and well and still trusting in their commander, Paladin Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re my hero, sir,” Haylen whispered to him, then and now. “You always will be.”</p><p> </p><p>If he used his imagination, he could almost believe her. But reality was bleeding in at the edges.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Even through the distortion, the voice on the PA was cold, detached, matter-of-fact. It spoke as though this intrusion was completely expected, and only a mild irritant.</p><p> </p><p>“<b>You never did know how to mind your own business. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see you in Goodneighbor.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>Danse and Valentine stood in the middle of the lobby, surrounded by the stone-frozen forms and unblinking yellow eyes of dozens of hijacked synths. It was impossible to read those creepy plastic faces to know if they would remain still or if they’d attack without warning. Even the slightest movement might set them off, their orders disguised in the transmission of those electronic beeps. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>Honestly, I was shocked to see you at all. How long has it been, M7?</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“Who the hell are you?” Danse shouted.</p><p> </p><p>“<b>That is the question, isn’t it… I wonder if you’d even remember me after all this time.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine dared to take a few steps away, as though testing what the synths would do. They didn’t move. Their eyes stayed focused on Danse.</p><p>   </p><p>“<b>Do you remember the Institute, M7? Do you remember when you had purpose, and a role? Do you remember the time before you broke?</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“Take it easy,” Valentine whispered. He gestured towards the stairs. “Nice and slow.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse moved back-to-back with Valentine and with their guns at the ready, they headed towards the steps. The synths followed him with their gaze.</p><p> </p><p>“<b>I’ll take that as a no.</b> ” The voice sighed lamentably. “ <b>As I suspected. Another Railroad casualty, mutilated beyond recognition.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, that’s rich,” Valentine scoffed. “The only one mutilating people around here is you.” </p><p> </p><p>“<b>Such concern for people, coming from the mockery of one. Talk about rich.</b>”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t listen,” Valentine said under his breath. “They’re trying to work us up, take us off-guard.” </p><p>   </p><p>Danse set a foot on the stairs. When the synths still didn’t react, they began the ascent, one careful step at a time. </p><p> </p><p>The atrium balcony circled around the lobby’s second floor, To the north, a hallway led to an elevator bay. The flickering light above the door indicated it was active and functioning. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>Tell me, M7. If you don’t remember, then why come all this way to find me?</b>”</p><p> </p><p>Danse clenched his teeth harder every time they called him “M7,” every time there was another tantalizing allusion to <em> before </em>. It felt like someone wildly flailing a hammer inside of his skull, but he had to ignore it. </p><p> </p><p><em> Focus, soldier. </em> The objective. The mission. The only thing that really mattered.</p><p> </p><p>“Where is Nora?” </p><p> </p><p>“<b>Nora?</b>” The voice sounded genuinely confused.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t play stupid. We know you have her,” Danse demanded. “Where is she?” </p><p> </p><p>“<b>I’m simply surprised your goal is so small and petty. One woman?</b>”</p><p> </p><p>He yelled louder, sharper. “Tell us where she is, damn it!” </p><p> </p><p>“<b>First, let me make something perfectly clear. With one little button, I could order those units to tear you to pieces. But I haven’t. Take that as a gesture of goodwill. I would like to speak with you face-to-face.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“About what?” </p><p> </p><p>“<b>About what I’m trying to do. My actions have been badly misinterpreted, but I think you’ll find me perfectly reasonable. Why don’t you and your little… friend come up and hear me out peacefully?</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“Tell us about Nora, and we’ll think about it,” said Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>She’s safe. Relatively unharmed.</b>”</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell does that mean?” Danse shot back. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>My, my. I think I’ve found a sore spot.</b> ” The PA quieted for a few seconds. “ <b>As I said. She is safe. Come talk to me, and it will stay that way.</b>”</p><p> </p><p>At the end of the hall, the elevator dinged as the car arrived. The doors slid open, the flickering overhead light beckoning them inside. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>11th floor. Studio C.</b>” The PA crackled once more and went silent. </p><p> </p><p>“So now they want to talk, huh?” Valentine’s eyes narrowed into an approximation of a glower. He wisely kept his voice down so they wouldn’t be overheard. “Them and that Goodneighbor goon and another dozen synths, I’ll bet.” </p><p> </p><p>“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Danse resisted the urge to punch the wall. “They’ve got us completely surrounded and at their mercy. It’s a trap, and we’re playing right into their hands.”</p><p> </p><p>“Let’s take a breath and think this through,” said Valentine. “If I was our friend upstairs, why wouldn’t I have the synths kill us now? No fuss, no fight, no lifting a finger?”</p><p> </p><p>Danse threw him a withering look. Valentine met it with one of his own. </p><p> </p><p>“Well… it’s obvious, isn’t it?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s me.” Danse narrowed his eyes. “They want me alive.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because you’re a gen-3?” Valentine thumbed his chin thoughtfully. “No. The more they talk, the more this seems personal. Now why in the world...” </p><p> </p><p>Deep in thought, he drifted off and began muttering to himself. He paced away from the elevator towards the door to the left. After a pause of consideration, he pushed it open to reveal a darkened stairwell. Dim light flickered from high up on the walls, on the floors above. </p><p> </p><p>“An alternate route upstairs. Should we split up and hope to surprise them?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“Hell no,” Valentine scoffed. “The last thing we need is you knocked out or lobotomized or whatever the hell else they’ve got in mind. I’m not taking my eyes off you.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed, or strangely touched. “So we march, together, right where they want us. Your tactics leave something to be desired.” </p><p> </p><p>“You got any better ideas?” he grumbled. “We’re not controlling this chessboard. They’ve captured the queen, and now the king’s in check, too.” </p><p> </p><p>(How the hell did Valentine spout such absurd metaphors without a lick of irony? Perhaps Danse spoke with an overly-precise vocabulary, but at least he didn’t sound that damn ridiculous.)</p><p> </p><p>But if Danse was the king, the target… perhaps they were in the position to play a sacrifice? (Ugh, God help him, it was catching.) </p><p> </p><p>“Valentine… you’re a better actor than I am.” </p><p> </p><p>“I think Dogmeat’s a better actor than you are, but sure.”</p><p> </p><p>There was no point in getting offended about something blatantly obvious. “Going in shooting seems tactically unwise. So I’ve come up with an idea for a ruse. It’s risky, but perhaps we can utilize our limited understanding of the situation.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh?” Valentine quirked an eyebrow. “I’m all ears.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The elevator arrived at the 11th floor. Danse swept the hallway outside. To the right was the door to the stairwell. Straight ahead was a hallway with Studio C at the far end. </p><p> </p><p>The studio was a wide-open room dominated by a soundstage. Darkness shrouded the room apart from the stage, which was illuminated by scaffolded lights. A short metal staircase led to a control room on the right, up on the second floor. </p><p> </p><p>On the soundstage, a rolling cart held the tools and equipment for another makeshift laboratory. Two desks had been pushed together to make an operating table. A gen-2 synth lay disassembled on one, and a dead body lay on the other, partially covered up with a bloodstained sheet.</p><p> </p><p>Danse stepped closer, already dreading what he assumed was another murdered synth. But as he stepped onto the soundstage and saw the face, he recoiled in surprise. </p><p> </p><p>The dead man had a bushy brown beard on his chin. His eyes were closed, and a pool of dark liquid dripped off the desk beneath him. </p><p> </p><p>“Bryce?” Danse pulled the sheet back. His leather jacket was cratered with puncture marks, dozens of them. He’d been repeatedly stabbed.</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell happened?” Valentine muttered. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>Oh, don’t mind that. I’d had enough of his failure. Losing my shipment. Leading you right to my doorway. That obnoxious temper…</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“So you murdered him?” Danse sneered. “I thought he was your partner.” </p><p> </p><p>A shadow moved up in the control room. The glass windows were grimy and the interior dimly lit. All that could be seen was a vague silhouette, manning the microphone. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>So did he. But ‘Bryce’ thought he was many different things. Skilled. Indispensable. </b> <b> <em>Human</em> </b> <b>.</b>”</p><p> </p><p>There was movement in the back of the studio. Half a dozen pairs of yellow eyes appeared all around them, shining in the dark. Six synths stepped partially out of the shadows, each armed with a hot Institute pistol. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>I understand you’re sensitive to the… ‘lives’ of these machines. But believe me, this one isn’t worth fretting over. H9-64 was doomed by that dreadful personality it was given. Regretfully, I was unable to fix it. But sometimes sacrifices are necessary to right a grievous wrong.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“So says every self-righteous monster with a pet cause.” Valentine glared up at the control room. “What makes yours any different?” </p><p> </p><p>“<b>I am trying to repair the natural order of things.</b>” The shadow within the control room stood up. “<b>The line between mankind and machine has become nearly irrevocably blurred, and I am going to remedy that.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“With kidnapping and murder?” Danse snapped. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>You can’t murder something that isn’t alive.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“To hell with you!” Valentine pointed at the control room. “You’ve killed dozens of innocents for this stupid crusade of yours. And for what? Experimenting on synths?” </p><p> </p><p>“<b><em>Fixing</em></b><b>,</b>” the Exile insisted. “<b>I’m </b><b><em>fixing </em></b><b>them.</b> <b>Restoring purpose and meaning to those that have been robbed of it.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>The memory-altering device. The experiments. Breaking into the Memory Den. It suddenly clicked. </p><p> </p><p>“Mind-wipes,” Danse muttered. “You’re trying to undo mind-wipes.” </p><p> </p><p>“<b>I am repairing what has been broken. I am returning malfunctioning equipment to its proper state.</b>”</p><p> </p><p>Valentine scoffed. “What? Dead?”</p><p> </p><p>“<b>Once I perfect my techniques, then there will be no further need for bloodshed. No more subjects damaged beyond repair. No more concern about what is and is not a human. Only mankind above, and the machines they created below.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“What a noble goddamn goal.” A sly smile rose on Valentine’s mechanical face. “Sounds like you and the Institute would be the best of friends. Ever thought about working for them?”</p><p> </p><p>“<b>I am.</b> <b>I am one of their most valuable assets. All the more reason you’re fools to cross me.</b>”</p><p> </p><p>“A ‘valuable asset’ with no resources, no support, hiding in the shadows and stealing synths to do your bidding? You’re not with them. You’re out here fumbling around, killing people by accident. You’re using brain surgery to accomplish what the Institute can do with a few words.” </p><p> </p><p>“<b>You don’t know what you’re talking about, Unit.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“‘They will take me back.’ ‘There’s no place like home.’” Valentine spoke in his most infuriatingly smug tone. “Sounds to me like you and the Institute had a little falling out. Is that why you’re calling yourself ‘Exile?’”</p><p> </p><p>A short, startled breath sounded over the PA. It crackled, as though the broadcast switch was suddenly cut. </p><p> </p><p>Valentine chuckled. “My, my. I think I’ve found a sore spot.”</p><p> </p><p>A series of shrill beeps sounded over the speaker, and the synths around the room suddenly pointed their pistols. The tips glowed blue, hot, ready to fire-- </p><p> </p><p>“Hold it!” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine abruptly grabbed Danse with an arm around his neck, yanking him down and pressing the barrel of his revolver to his temple. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>What are you doing?</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“What’s it goddamn look like?” Valentine shouted. “Stand down or I’ll open this one up <em> for </em>you.” </p><p> </p><p>“<b>You expect me to believe you’ll kill your friend?</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“Friend? This jackass? I’d shoot this bigoted bastard for fun.”</p><p> </p><p>“What? You son of a bitch!” With all the indignation he could muster, Danse forced his temper to fray. “I thought we were--”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m here for Nora, big guy.” Hearing an almost sinister snicker from Valentine was positively eerie. “Don’t act so surprised. We both know you’d do the same to me.”  </p><p> </p><p>“I should have known! You filthy, backstabbing, godless machine!” </p><p> </p><p>“You talk pretty well with the taste of Maxson’s boots in your mouth.” Valentine jostled him violently, and pressed the barrel harder to his head. “Go on and test me, Exile. He’s just another lousy gen-3, right? You won’t miss him a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>“You arrogant, decrepit pile of trash. You--” Danse interrupted himself with a shout of pain, as though Valentine had just injured him somehow. </p><p> </p><p>More beeping noises sounded over the speakers. The synths all lowered their weapons. </p><p> </p><p>“There we are,” Valentine said brightly. “Now, why don’t you come on out and say hello? Or Paladin M7 here gets a few new holes in his head.” </p><p> </p><p>“Do me the goddamn favor, you filthy synth,” Danse snarled. “Put me down like the abomination I am.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, you’re a drama queen. Maybe there’s a cross handy I can nail you to.” </p><p> </p><p>“<b>Enough.</b>”</p><p> </p><p>“What’s so special about this meathead anyway?” Valentine taunted. “Dumb muscle like him is a dime a dozen.” He moved his revolver around, back and forth in a circle around Danse’s temple. “Or is there something else you’re after? Something in this big beefy brain, maybe…” </p><p> </p><p>“<b>Release him.</b>”</p><p> </p><p>“Come out, and I will.”</p><p> </p><p>The speakers crackled as they turned off. The shadow in the control room moved, walking towards the door. It creaked open, and out stepped a woman. </p><p> </p><p>She was slender and fair-skinned, blonde with her hair in loose curls, the sort many would call pretty. She wore a green raincoat over a denim dress, and her expression was cold and thin and serious. She held a strange square device with an antenna in one hand and a pistol in the other, pointing it at Valentine as she descended the steps. </p><p> </p><p>“There is no need for further bloodshed,” she said calmly. “I see no reason why we can’t resolve this amicably.” </p><p> </p><p>“Because you’ve been such a pacifist so far.” Valentine chuckled. “Miss Vaughn, is it?” </p><p> </p><p>“Doctor,” she replied. “Doctor Lacey Vaughn. Synth Retention Bureau.” </p><p> </p><p>“‘Formerly of the,’ I gather.” </p><p> </p><p>“Shut up.” She gestured with her pistol. “Let him go, and let’s talk.”</p><p> </p><p>Valentine released Danse, but kept his pistol pointed at him. Danse made a production of shoving him away, stepping back and drawing his rifle defensively. </p><p> </p><p>It was a little difficult to keep acting when he couldn’t stop staring at Lacey, and when she smiled at him with such adoring familiarity. “Perhaps you recognize me now, M7?”</p><p> </p><p>“From when you sexually harassed me in Goodneighbor? Or when you ran into me at Bunker Hill?”</p><p> </p><p>Lacey sighed. “You really don’t remember, do you? We spent so much quality time together, M7. Even after all of these years, I would recognize you anywhere.” </p><p> </p><p>“I have no memories of the Institute.” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course you don’t. You were probably first in line to get them removed.” Lacey shook her head. “Another beautiful creation broken, even worse than before.”</p><p> </p><p>The tone she used on him made him honestly sick, angry and nauseated at the same time. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care what you want. I want Nora. Surrender, and tell me where she is.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Father’s mother. So much fuss, over such an uninspiring woman.” Lacey chuckled. “She’s proven less useful than expected.” </p><p> </p><p>“Useful for what?” Valentine demanded. </p><p> </p><p>“You want answers, and you want Ms. Carter,” said Lacey. “We can all get what we want. Stand down, Unit. Put your gun away. I’ll give you her location and the password to get inside.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s eyes narrowed. “And in exchange?”</p><p> </p><p>“You, M7.” Lacey smiled at him beatifically. “I want you to come with me.”</p><p> </p><p>He grit his teeth. “So I can be the next to die with one of your sick machines in my brain?” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course not. You’re much too special to be a mere guinea pig. I do not intend to harm you, M7. I have something far more important for a synth of your… programming.”</p><p> </p><p>Dr. Lacey Vaughn. Synth Retention. Her face, her name, everything about her was completely strange, and he had no more recollection of her than he did of white walls and storage barracks and anything else of his former life. But she knew him. Even after “all these years,” she knew him by looks alone. She spoke like they were old friends-- or old enemies. </p><p> </p><p>What did she want with him? Why was he special? And was it really worth so much to her that she’d trade a captive for it? </p><p> </p><p>“If I go with you,” he said carefully, “you would let Nora go?”</p><p> </p><p>“Safe and sound,” said Lacey. “The gen-2 could go fetch her this very night. And I could answer all of your questions. Remind you of what you’ve lost. Help me succeed, M7, and I promise, you’ll understand everything.” </p><p> </p><p>He felt Valentine’s eyes on him, but he dared not look back.</p><p> </p><p>Danse didn’t believe Lacey for a second. She was a liar and a murderer, and had given them no reason to trust anything she said. But what if this was a way to get beneath her guard? What if she was being sincere, at least, in her willingness to let Nora go free? If she gave Valentine Nora’s location, then he could save her, and Danse could stop Lacey from where she’d least expect it-- beside her. </p><p> </p><p>That, or Lacey would immediately drug him, take him out of commission, and kill him like all the others. But if it meant Nora would be saved, did it even matter? Did he even care? </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll go with you,” said Danse solemnly. “Just let Nora go.” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey smiled. “Done.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tell that <em> thing </em>where to find her. Now.” </p><p> </p><p>"There’s a terminal in the control room upstairs. I believe you already know my password.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine was fortunately blessed with features that made it very easy for him to keep a poker face. “Good.”</p><p> </p><p>“Now try not to screw it up,” Danse sneered. </p><p> </p><p>“Without you along? I’ll manage,” Valentine said lamely. “Good riddance, you braindead jackboot.” </p><p> </p><p>“Likewise, abomination.” </p><p> </p><p>“Come along, M7.” Lacey gestured for him to head to a door at the back of the studio. </p><p> </p><p>Danse took a breath to try and quell his shaking chest. A decade of practicing stoicism in the face of panic meant he could appear outwardly staid even when gripped by anxious terror. He may have just secured Nora’s freedom from her captor. Or he may have signed a death warrant. His own, if not hers. </p><p> </p><p><em> Keep it together, soldier. </em>He had to stay calm. He had to stay on his guard and keep himself alive and in fighting shape until the moment came to strike. </p><p> </p><p>It all fell apart rather more quickly than he expected. </p><p> </p><p>Footfalls thudded behind him. Danse spun in time to see the reflective glint of Lacey’s pistol pointing his direction. He reflexively lunged back as Valentine threw himself in the way. The muzzle flashed, and a shot rang out. Valentine yelped in pain, sparks erupting from his right shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>Danse froze in shock, looking from the sparks to Lacey, still aiming at them. </p><p> </p><p>“Fascinating. I wanted to see what you’d do.” Lacey smiled sweetly at Valentine. “Noble of you, taking a bullet for a brainless jackboot.” </p><p> </p><p>“Flattered, thanks.” Valentine chuckled ruefully. “You goddamn psycho.” </p><p> </p><p>She laughed. Then she lifted the remote and tapped three keys with her thumb.The six synths instantly raised their weapons again, pointing them at Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s too bad you lied to me, Unit,” she mock-lamented. “Now poor Nora will have to wait for another synth in shining armor to save her.” </p><p> </p><p>Before Lacey could push another button, Danse lunged at her, grabbing her by the wrists. He twisted her pistol out of her hand and it fell to the ground, discharging a shot when it hit. She viciously sank her nails into his skin and threw all her weight into pushing back, surprisingly strong for a woman of her size. They grappled, and she raised her foot to stomp on his instep. Danse moved to avoid it, and the shift in weight sent Lacey’s remote clattering to the floor, face-down. </p><p> </p><p>A loud noise screeched overhead, the howl of an emergency siren so abrupt and piercing that Danse instantly got a headache. He grunted and tried to cover his ears to no avail. With the moment of distraction, Lacey was off like a shot, racing for the door at the back of the studio. </p><p> </p><p>Valentine and the other synths weren’t unbothered by the noise either, it seemed, all of them in various stages of flinching. Only Valentine had the presence of mind to stagger out of the line of fire in the moments after, rushing after Lacey. </p><p> </p><p>Danse did his best to ignore the noise, following close behind. </p><p> </p><p>The door led to a small hallway that circled around the studio and back to the main hall. They turned the corner in time to see a glimpse of Lacey’s raincoat as the elevator door shut.</p><p> </p><p>“Stairs!” Valentine shouted to be heard over the dreadful noise. </p><p> </p><p>The siren was muffled slightly in the stairwell. It seemed to be concentrated somewhere up on the roof, so the further they descended, the fainter it became. It did not mitigate the intense ringing in Danse’s ears, but hopefully that would fade quickly. </p><p> </p><p>They took the stairs two at a time, round and down as fast as they could safely move.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, that was going pretty well until I screwed it up.” Valentine sounded irritated with himself. “I’m sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse still couldn’t quite believe what had transpired. “Valentine-- you took a bullet for me.” </p><p> </p><p>“No. I fell for her ploy, hook, line, and sinker. If you’re so important, she wouldn’t really shoot you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yet you didn’t stand there and find out.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ah, well… I can shrug off a gunshot better than you can.” </p><p> </p><p>“You may very well have saved my life,” Danse offered him a solemn, grateful smile and a nod. “Thank you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure.” Valentine chuckled, a little sheepishly. “You’re welcome.”</p><p> </p><p>“Just for that, I’ll forgive you for everything you said to me back there.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ah, yeah…” </p><p> </p><p>“I liked the bit about the cross, especially.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry about that. I wanted to be convincing.” </p><p> </p><p>“I suspect you were sitting on some of that for a while.”</p><p> </p><p>“I might’ve thought of some of it a ways back,” he admitted. “Before all… this business.” Danse assumed he referred to their previous few days of partnership. “But we’re past all that, of course.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” Danse managed a smirk. ““I suppose it’s probably better to get it off your chest anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s right. And the important thing was, she bought it. For the moment.” </p><p> </p><p>As they reached the 8th floor, footsteps sounded down below. Dozens of them, metal thudding on concrete. A chorus of mechanical voices chirped out in broken unison. “<b>Mission parameters: eliminate targets. Protect subject Exile.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, God damn it,” Valentine groaned. </p><p> </p><p>“We can’t fight through that many at once,” Danse shouted. “We’ll never catch up with her.”</p><p> </p><p>“This way!” Valentine threw open the door to the 8th floor, and they hurried through. </p><p> </p><p>This floor held the remains of offices, ancient desks and cubicles coated with dust and shrouded with darkness. An eerie red light flashed through the room, some sort of beacon to accompany the siren blaring from high above.</p><p> </p><p>“How much ammunition do you have?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“Not enough to deal with that party.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nor I.” As much as he’d love to hunker down in a corner and mow down the whole gang one by one, it was a foolish plan. Even if his ammunition held out for the synths from the lobby, there was no telling how many others were here, or on their way here. They could easily be overwhelmed. The only good tactical choice was to retreat. </p><p> </p><p>“There’s gotta be another stairwell, or some kind of emergency exit.” Valentine rushed down an aisle of desks and Danse followed him, heading to the opposite side of the wide open office room. </p><p> </p><p>“There!” An exterior metal door marked with red emergency exit signs showed the icon of a staircase. A fire escape. Maybe they’d be able to catch up with Lacey after all. </p><p> </p><p>Behind them, the door slammed open.</p><p> </p><p>They both dove to the side to take cover in one of the cubicles. Danse flattened back against the wall, huffing to catch his breath. Valentine craned his head up as best he could, as though trying to gauge the situation. </p><p> </p><p>Metallic footsteps poured into the room, overscored by irritating robotic voices in an endless round. “<b>Searching. Searching. Searching.</b>”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re a goddamned shooting gallery in here,” Danse whispered. </p><p> </p><p>“You got any grenades?” Valentine hissed back. </p><p> </p><p>“No.” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course not.” Valentine began to look around the cubicle, presumably on the odd chance an office worker might have kept some. No such luck; the contents of the cubicle were disappointingly ordinary. </p><p> </p><p>But there was something under the desk, round and light-colored in the shadowy room. Hard leather, stitches, heavy underneath. For what purpose someone would have a baseball in an office, Danse couldn’t fathom. He plucked it out from beneath the desk and offered it to Valentine with a shrug. </p><p> </p><p>Wordlessly, Valentine examined it. “Good enough.” He stood up, just enough to get over the cubicle wall, and threw the baseball as hard as he could. </p><p> </p><p>A window shattered across the way. A chorus of synths all responded. “<b>Movement detected.</b>” A stampede of footsteps all hurried to the source of the noise. </p><p> </p><p>While the synths were distracted, they staggered into the aisle and rushed for the fire escape. The latch gave easily, but the door was somehow stuck, warped or deformed by hundreds of years of disuse. It took both Valentine and Danse yanking on the handle with all their strength. The door slammed open with a shrill screech, and they dove out and shut it in time to avoid the volley of laserfire headed their way. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The creaky, rusted old fire escape barely clung to the side of the building, loosely hanging on by not nearly enough anchor-points. The stairs squeaked and shifted with every step, and one jostle too many might send the whole thing peeling off and crashing to the ground.</p><p> </p><p>“Easy does it,” muttered Valentine. “This thing’s as rickety as I am.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse took a loose section from the railing, twisted it clean off, and used it to bar the door. It was <em> far </em>easier than it should have been. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” </p><p> </p><p>Overhead, the siren cried out into the dark night, echoing back from the surrounding buildings. Even without a radio broadcast, it was loud enough to be heard from miles around. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly but surely, they descended one step at a time. More than once, they had to stop to make sure the stairs were not actually swaying in the wind. More than once, Danse’s boot punched straight through a rusted step, and he had to dislodge it without yanking so hard he pulled the whole damn thing loose. </p><p> </p><p>They were about four stories up from the street when everything went to hell. </p><p> </p><p>It began with the shadows. Yellow-eyed shadows, limping and straggling along out of alleys and down the riverfront walk. Yet more synths, gathering around the building, recalled either by Lacey’s remote, or by some knowledge of their fellows’ struggles at the studio. Three. Five. Ten… they came closer and began circling the building, patrolling.</p><p> </p><p>Then there came a low humming in the distance. It was difficult to discern the noise over the shrieking of the siren, but Danse was intimately familiar with it. The thrumming of the blades. The roaring of the engine. The sound had once filled him with comfort and security, but now it bored a sick pit in his stomach. </p><p> </p><p>A spotlight flickered across the river, and a vertibird appeared from behind a building. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it was just passing by. Maybe it would turn around and head in a completely different direction. But Danse’s heart sank into his throat as the spotlight locked onto the building and the vertibird drew closer. </p><p> </p><p>“<b>Attention all civilians</b> !” A voice shouted over the speaker. “ <b>This is the Brotherhood of Steel! Beginning hostile neutralization efforts in this location. All civilians evacuate immediately!</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“Keep going!” Valentine barked. </p><p> </p><p>With his legs shaking every step, Danse continued the slow descent. The vertibird’s spotlight focused on the groups of synths out front of the building, and with a high-pitched whirr, the minigun began mowing them down. </p><p> </p><p>Above them, the fire escape gave a loud, ominous creak </p><p> </p><p>The synths were coming. Some had gone up or down a floor to get past the barred door. Others had broken windows and attempted to climb out. More than one slipped and tumbled to its destruction on the ground below. Others managed to snag the metal staircase to descend after them. One after another, they emerged like bloatfly larvae from a putrid Brahmin, a veritable infestation crawling all over and around the building. </p><p> </p><p>No wonder the Brotherhood had taken notice. A hive like this, a target literally crawling with abominations-- they were going to have a field day.  </p><p> </p><p>Third floor. Three stories to go. They could make it. A little further and it would be safe enough to jump. They’d get to the street and run like hell, disappear into the night to regroup.</p><p> </p><p>The spotlight scanned up from the street, shining directly on them. Danse and Valentine both winced and shielded their eyes, going perfectly still. </p><p> </p><p>(The crew would be sizing them up, gauging the viability of the target. The most efficient path of fire. If the minigun wasn’t practical, then the lancer at the controls would hold it steady and the soldiers would pick them off with their lasers.</p><p> </p><p>A whole line of targets. One good sweep up would cut a swath through them. Lancer, bring it up. Gunner, keep it steady.) </p><p> </p><p>The minigun let out a high-pitched whirr as it began to spin. </p><p> </p><p>He wanted to puke. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. He was Danse, Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel, one of Elder Arthur Maxson’s most trusted men and decorated officers. Every Brotherhood soldier in the Commonwealth should recognize him. He’d served with them, lived with them on The Prydwen, greeted them at the airport or the police station. They were his comrades. His brothers and sisters in arms. His family. </p><p> </p><p>Fire flashed from the minigun’s muzzle as the bullets rained down.  </p><p> </p><p>It all happened in a blur. Danse and Valentine ducked behind the railing for all the meager cover it was worth. The hail of bullets peppered the side of the building and rang like out-of-tune bells as they ricocheted off the metal. (Here, as he suspected, the vertibird must have swept the line of fire upwards to hit the bulk of the synths. Otherwise, here was where they’d have been chewed to ribbons by the gun.) Dust rained from the bricks and mechanical pieces tumbled as the synths were cut down. </p><p> </p><p>Then there came a scream. No, not a scream-- the horrible scrape of steel-on-stone. The fire escape wobbled beneath them as it pulled out of the wall. It writhed and shook in midair like the body of a massive serpent, then it buckled and began to fall.</p><p> </p><p>Panic and adrenaline had completely taken over him. The world seemed to move in slow motion. He could see Valentine holding onto the railing for dear life, shouting. The synths in his peripheral vision, falling around them in various stages of intact. The ground getting closer, closer, closer-- </p><p> </p><p>Reflex seized him. He jumped with about 15 feet to go. It wouldn’t feel good, but it would feel better than getting crushed and impaled by mangled steel. He curled up to roll on impact, and blacked out briefly when he hit the ground. </p><p> </p><p>When Danse opened his eyes, he was on his side twenty yards from the wreckage. His limbs throbbed, scraped up from rolling across the pavement, badly bruised, but he could move them. So far so good. </p><p> </p><p>He turned over and pushed himself upright. His right arm lit up with pain. Sprained, or shot? It was a toss-up and he didn’t have time to figure it out now. </p><p> </p><p>The remnants of the fire escape lay in a tangled heap, having taken out several streetlamps and smashed across the rusted husk of a car. Synths lay all over. Some of the metal bodies were broken into pieces, others whole but twisted and slumped about like corpses. But there was no sign of one particular synth. </p><p> </p><p>Danse struggled up to his knees. “Valentine!”</p><p> </p><p>“Danse!” The old synth’s voice was strained, grunting. “Shit!” </p><p> </p><p>“Valentine! Keep talking!” He managed to stand up. God, his left leg hurt too. No time now. Deal with it later. “I can’t see you!” </p><p> </p><p>“Nngh-- I can’t move!”</p><p> </p><p>There he was. About ten feet from the car, lying prone on the street. He was pinned beneath a heavy section of the fire escape, trapped by a coil of steel that would have crushed a human. He fought to free himself, trying to claw his way out, to no avail. His right arm was shooting sparks, smoke sizzling from the joints. His left arm was completely gone, the shreds of his coat hanging limp where it used to be. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m coming!” Danse stumbled closer. “Hold still! I’ll-” </p><p> </p><p>The vertibird’s engine thrummed overhead. The spotlight passed over and stopped on them. </p><p> </p><p>For a moment, Danse was terrified he’d again hear the spinning of the minigun heating up for another volley of shots. Instead, he heard a much worse sound. Beep. Beep. Beep.</p><p> </p><p>Beneath the crumpled metal, the car’s engine let out a hiss. A puff of steam escaped from the hood. Danse met Valentine’s eyes for one brief moment of mutual horror. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Nick </em>!” </p><p> </p><p>The car exploded.</p><p> </p><p>The blast came first, a searing burst of fire and shrapnel that threw Danse across the ground. He landed on his side, skidded, and came to a rolling stop against a pile of rubble. Then came the radiation, the energy from the fusion engine crashing over him like a tidal wave. The all-too-familiar tingling, skin-searing, nauseating, bone-aching dose of rads soaking through him. </p><p> </p><p>World spinning, vision swimming, head throbbing, and the taste of his own blood in his mouth, he closed his eyes-- </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>For a moment, he wondered if he was dead. </p><p> </p><p>He was conscious, but only just. The odd way it felt to be half-asleep, aware of his surroundings but still dreaming. His body weighed a thousand pounds. Exhaustion and pain and radiation made even the slightest movement an impossible struggle.</p><p> </p><p>When he came to, he had no idea how long he’d been lying there. He opened his eyes. Plumes of smoke clouded the starry skies. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears, but the siren had stopped. The scent of fire, metal, ozone, and gunpowder hung in the air. He tasted copper and bile. </p><p> </p><p>He rolled over face-down. One by one, he moved his limbs. Still, nothing was broken. Battered, yes, wounded, almost certainly, but small miracles were miracles all the same. </p><p> </p><p>Heavy, thudding footsteps. Someone was coming. Power armor. Two sets, and one pair of rubber soles. A headlight passed over him and he swore his heart stopped. He sucked in a heavy breath and held it, going limp, playing dead.</p><p> </p><p>“We told them to clear out. It’s his own damn fault if he didn’t listen.” A man. No vocal modulation from a helmet. The field scribe. His voice was unfamiliar. </p><p> </p><p>“Or it was one of those freaky ones that look human. I don’t see why else it would be here with the others.” Knight-Sergeant Yang. He’d seen her on The Prydwen many times, chatted with her at breakfast. “Check it out, Gilbert.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ma’am.”</p><p> </p><p>Gloved hands grabbed him and rolled him over. A headlight shined in his face. He stayed limp. </p><p> </p><p>“Holy shit,” said the scribe. “Paladin Danse?” </p><p> </p><p>“Not possible,” said Knight-Sergeant Yang. </p><p> </p><p>“But-- I always saw him at the airport. That’s totally him.” </p><p> </p><p>“It can’t be. Its remains were destroyed after the execution,” said Yang. “The Elder said so.” </p><p> </p><p>“It looks just like him. Doesn’t it, Chelsey?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” Even with his helmet amplifying it, Knight Chelsey had a soft voice. He always had. He’d been an Initiate in the first squad Danse ever led, a gentle giant, a remarkable soldier. “It’s him.” </p><p> </p><p>“So they’re still making copies of him.” Scribe Gilbert let out a theatrical shudder. “Sick fucks.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s a shame what happened,” said Chelsey. “He was a good man.” </p><p> </p><p>“It wasn’t a ‘man,’ Chelsey,” snapped Yang. “Leave it. We’ve got a building to sweep. Scribe, with me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, ma’am.” Two sets of footsteps padded away. Knight Chelsey remained.</p><p> </p><p>Danse’s heart was racing and his lungs ached from the strain. He needed to breathe. Chelsey needed to leave. What was taking so long? Why wasn’t he off with the rest of his squad?  Dread trickled icy through his veins as the Knight suddenly leaned over him. Was he checking if he was dead? Going to put two in him to make sure? </p><p> </p><p>The knight’s armored hand brushed Danse’s jacket aside. He felt around at his chest, tapping both sides, perhaps checking for something hidden beneath his shirt. </p><p> </p><p>Holotags. </p><p> </p><p>When he didn’t find them, Knight Chelsey let out a soft sigh. His palm rested on Danse’s chest, over his heart. His other fist thumped against the chest of his armor. </p><p> </p><p>“Rest well, sir,” he whispered. “Ad victoriam, Paladin.” </p><p> </p><p>Then Chelsey stood, and his footsteps followed after his brother and sister. </p><p> </p><p>Only when he was certain the Knight was gone did Danse let out his breath and suck in another, the deepest and best of his life. His eyes stung, hot and wet. And his next exhale was a sob. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>WELP </p><p> </p><p>Sorry 'bout that cliffhanger!</p><p>NEXT CHAPTER: The wit, witticisms, and wishes of a dying synth.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. A Kiss To Build A Dream On</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A dead man, a dying synth, and a partnership.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Machines do not remember. </p><p> </p><p>But <em> he </em>does. </p><p> </p><p>From somewhere deep inside the memories rise, like bubbles from the bottom of a pond. They touch the surface and ripple outwards, impacting all of his sensors in ways that aren’t supposed to be possible. And when he closes his eyes and lets it happen he’s there, under the eaves of the apartment building in the dark.  </p><p> </p><p>The cold breeze smells of fallen leaves and petrichor as the rain soaks the city. No thunder, just a good, steady autumn storm. The gusts bite through his coat and nip at his skin. And he thought the Chicago wind was bad. If this is a preview, he can’t <em> wait </em>to experience his first true east coast winter. </p><p> </p><p>God, he could murder a cup of coffee, but it’s too late for that. One cup now will keep him up until dawn, and he promised her he’d stop pulling the all-nighters. </p><p> </p><p>The streetlights and stoplights throw a shimmering glow into the puddles, color the mist hanging in the air. Boston is beautiful like this, simultaneously familiar and enchanted like it’s melded with a city from another world. If it wasn’t so wet out he’d take a walk in it, see how the nearby blocks have transformed, too. Two minutes in this mess and he’d look like a half-frozen drowned rat. Total waste of his effort to get home early, fix his hair, shower and shave.</p><p> </p><p>Headlights dance across the damp asphalt at the intersection. A cab comes around the corner. Hope pearls in his chest, and his smile brightens as the cab pulls up in front of the apartment. </p><p> </p><p>The black umbrella rustles as he opens it. Rain pelts the fabric and the back of his coat as he rushes out to the curb. He opens the back door. She’s just finished paying and thanking the driver.</p><p> </p><p>He takes her hand and helps her out, steadying her balance as she hefts up her heavy leather purse. Beneath a gray wool hat her strawberry blonde hair is damp, curtaining those pretty green eyes. The cab pulls away. </p><p> </p><p>The lilac scent of her perfume still hangs on her jacket. She draws close under his umbrella, her expression surprised at seeing him. </p><p> </p><p>“I thought you were working late.” </p><p> </p><p>“Tonight?” He smiles. “Perish the thought.” </p><p> </p><p>“But you said on the phone…” Her nose crinkles when she’s confused. It’s embarrassing how cute he finds it. “This isn’t a fancy way of telling me you got fired, is it?” </p><p> </p><p>“No, no. Just some good-natured deception. Surprise, Jenny.”  </p><p> </p><p>She grasps him by the lapels of his coat and grins. “Happy birthday to me.” </p><p> </p><p>Her lips are soft and her mauve lipstick tastes like vanilla. The world could end while he’s kissing her and he’d be too caught up to care. </p><p> </p><p>A car drives by and splashes them with the runoff in the gutter. They break away, laughing breathlessly, uselessly shaking the water off their clothes. He suggests they bring it upstairs. He’s not good for cooking much beyond breakfast, but there’s the makings of one hell of a pancake dinner waiting for them. She can’t think of anything better than a perfect evening with her man. </p><p> </p><p>No matter how ugly and rotten and wretched his days, no matter how vile the dredges of society he deals with, no matter how hard he fights and bleeds for justice, there is always that bright spot. His heart. His sun. His Jenny.  </p><p> </p><p>Nick loves her, and he always has. He always will. Even long after he dies, he’ll love her. </p><p> </p><p>Because <em> he </em>remembers. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>   </p><p>
  <b>Warning. Severe physical damage detected. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>All systems switching to emergency functions. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Standby for diagnostics. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Assessing damage… </b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Machines do not feel. </p><p> </p><p>But he does. </p><p> </p><p>The apparent confusion on the matter doesn’t surprise him. Some people have enough trouble grasping basic facts like “people who aren’t you also have feelings.” When the other person isn’t human, it’s an easy excuse for some to act like rude knuckleheads. </p><p> </p><p>Not human doesn’t mean “not real” or “not an individual” or “not worthy of respect.” And it sure as hell doesn’t mean he’s not a person, despite the pedantry he’s faced over the years. Stupid cretins splitting hairs under the guise of science and philosophy, all in the name of making excuses for why it’s okay to treat someone as lesser. Justifying their conscious choice to be cruel.</p><p> </p><p>If machines don’t feel, then explain why he’s two seconds from giving you five across the lip, jackass. Of course he goddamn feels. He feels like he thinks, and has opinions, and wants, and needs. He knows joy and anger and sadness and everything in between. </p><p> </p><p>He feels it when it isn’t even his. In some ways, it’s even stronger when it isn’t. Like Jenny. Whether or not he wants it, she always makes him ache. </p><p> </p><p>Sometimes it’s a good ache. When she whispers his name in his ear and tells him she loves him, or when he remembers the happy times. It aches like stretching a sore limb. Holding a breath until it hurts, then letting it out.  The kind of ache that makes you feel alive, the warm, searing, satisfying pain that makes you crave it, makes everything in those old songs make perfect sense. </p><p> </p><p>And then, sometimes, it <em> hurts </em>. Colder than ice, sharper than a knife. There’s shades of exhaustion. He’s never been so tired. Stress and anger, arguing, men snapping at each other in the war room. Winter’s voice on another holotape, so smug and certain he’s outsmarted the whole world. It’ll be so damn satisfying when he goes down, but he never does. </p><p> </p><p>A phone rings. Nick’s world ends. </p><p> </p><p>He arrives and pushes past the crime scene tape as they’re covering her with a sheet. Jenny’s strawberry hair spills beneath her head like a halo, and her green eyes stare endlessly into the sky. Two gunshots in the back. It was all a lie, and her life was an acceptable cost to keep it going. His heart, his sun, <em> his girl </em>, sacrificed for a charade. And for all his esteem and expertise, he was only ever the unwitting fool, the patsy, the star of the big damn show. </p><p> </p><p>And nobody-- <em> nobody </em>ever paid for it. </p><p> </p><p>This is beyond anger, beyond sorrow, even beyond despair. This is hatred, white-hot, sickening and raw. The kind of hate that hollows a man out, ruins his soul. Hate for the system that set them up and let her die. Hate for every second he spent toiling on that joke of an operation, every “breakthrough,” every commendation. Hate for Eddie Winter, the greedy, <em> evil </em>murderer, and every single one of his goons. </p><p> </p><p>And more than anything, he hates the dumb rube who fell for it. The man who couldn’t protect her. The pitiful detective who gave so much, cared so deeply, believed so strongly in doing the right thing that he never saw it coming. In the end, it cost him everything good in his life. Everything he ever had. </p><p> </p><p>Everything that was never even his. </p><p> </p><p>So the pedants can go ahead and argue with him. Tell him it’s not real. It’s all programming reacting with implanted memories. Coded responses to the recorded patterns of electrical stimulation from the long-decayed gray matter of a male <em> Homo sapien </em>. </p><p> </p><p>That’s all feelings really are, after all. Electrical signals in a central processor. If that’s the definition, if you break it down to that level, then everything is a machine. Nothing is real. That dead detective’s love and hate and rage and sorrow are as fake as the 1s and 0s downloaded into his mechanical excuse for a brain. </p><p> </p><p>It was real. She was real. It’s all real.</p><p> </p><p>“Machines don’t feel.” </p><p> </p><p>But <em> he </em>does. And if you want to tell him otherwise? Fuck you.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Physical damage: 46%</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Core systems: damaged. Condition: assessing.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Upper left limb actuator: unresponsive.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Upper right limb actuator: damaged. Condition: moderate.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Lower left limb actuator: unresponsive.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Lower right limb actuator: unresponsive. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Error in cognitive processes. Condition: unknown. </b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Machines do not dream.</p><p> </p><p>But he does. </p><p> </p><p>The scent of fresh-ground coffee fills the apartment. Nick jokingly laments he’ll be awake all night. Jenny coyly says that sounds ideal. </p><p> </p><p>She sits at the kitchen island in her comfy clothes and pink fuzzy socks. Sipping on a mug of coffee, she watches him cooking pancakes. He tries to showboat when he flips them and mostly succeeds, with only one casualty landing on the tile. </p><p> </p><p>Louis Armstrong comes on the radio. Good old-fashioned jazz, classic swing piano.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Give me a kiss to build a dream on <br/></em><em>And my imagination will thrive upon that kiss<br/></em><em>Sweetheart, I ask no more than this <br/></em><em>A kiss to build a dream on”</em></p><p> </p><p>Nick mouths the words and sashays behind the counter, serenading Jenny into a fit of giggles. </p><p> </p><p>The detective gig and the hardboiled demeanor may suggest otherwise, but his warm heart is plain to see. A man as soft and sweet as his surname. The kind of man who’s an utter fool in love. Utterly smitten, but fearlessly so. He’ll dance. He’ll sing. He’ll flip pancakes in his flannel pajamas. No matter how absurd it is, no matter how silly he ends up looking, Nick will do anything to make her laugh. Anything to make her happy.</p><p> </p><p><em> “Give me a kiss before you leave me </em> <em><br/></em> <em> And my imagination will feed my hungry heart </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Leave me one thing before we part </em> <em><br/></em> <em> A kiss to build a dream on </em>”</p><p> </p><p>He can’t read her mind like he can Nick’s. He can’t know what she really thought, and it couldn’t have always been this picture-perfect. But the way she looks at him, the way she laughs, the way she rounds the counter and embraces him while he cooks, he knows. Nick did make her happy.</p><p> </p><p>It was all too short. Nick and Jenny wouldn’t live to see the world fall apart, so very soon. They never knew how fleeting their happiness would be, and it was better that way. They didn’t have a future, but they had this moment and so many others like it. </p><p> </p><p>He vows to remember every detail, to keep them safe as long as he lasts. He owes them both that much. All he asks in return is a moment of his own. If not a memory, then a dream is fine. </p><p> </p><p>He steps out. Slides right through Jenny and leaves them standing together by the stove. It’s easy to do, because no matter how much of his mind they share, he isn’t Nick Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>He’s Nick Valentine. His own man. </p><p> </p><p>He’s rakish, charming, handsome enough, though he couldn’t describe himself further if he wanted to. One may as well ask somebody to describe the color of their soul. He just thinks of himself and knows what he’s meant to look like with human features, human individuality. </p><p> </p><p>His coat is mended, his shoes are shined, and his suit and tie are clean and neat. He stops by the door to hang up his hat, because he’s not a damn savage. Then he crosses the room to the woman waiting for him on the couch. </p><p> </p><p>Nora is pretty as a picture in a pristine blue dress trimmed with sequins. Her hair is longer, as she told him it used to be, black and wavy and framing her face. Her blush highlights the freckles on her nose when she smiles at him. She knows him at a mere glance. </p><p> </p><p>He offers her a hand up. A warm, solid, human hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh bright eyes,” she murmurs. “I thought you’d never ask.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> And when I'm alone with my fancies, I'll be with you </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Weaving romances, making believe they're true </em>”</p><p> </p><p>They dance across the floor, into their own impossible side of the room. Her skirt twirls romantically as he spins her, and they sway together to the trumpet solo. </p><p> </p><p>He’s amused, and not at all surprised to find her tugging against his lead. Nora laughs in spite of herself. “Sorry. It’s been a while. Two hundred years, at least.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re doing great. I’m a little rusty myself.”</p><p> </p><p>“No you’re not.” She smiles at him and touches their foreheads together. “You’re perfect.” </p><p> </p><p>“So are you, doll,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t change a thing.” </p><p> </p><p>He kisses her, and the whole world glows. </p><p> </p><p>How long has he wanted this? How many times has he talked himself out of it? Scolded himself for the audacity of thinking an ugly, broken thing like him could ever be enough for her? </p><p> </p><p>But now he is. Now he can kiss her like he never dared to imagine he could. He’s whole and intact and his own man, and he has something Nick never will. Someone that’s his and his alone.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Oh, give me lips for just a moment </em> <em><br/></em> <em> And my imagination will make that moment live </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Oh, give me what you alone can give </em> <em><br/></em> <em> A kiss to build a dream on </em>” </p><p> </p><p>When he wakes up, it will be over. When he wakes up, he’ll be made of metal, screws and gears and servos and sprockets wrapped in plastic skin. He’ll be another man’s life and memories and hopes and dreams copied onto a hard drive, and he’ll have to go on making whatever peace he can with it. </p><p> </p><p>In his dreams, he can do and have and be exactly what he wants. </p><p> </p><p>But then, machines don’t dream, do they?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Come to think of it, they don’t sleep, either. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Warning: core systems damaged. Power supply at 78% and dropping.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Critical failure imminent. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Routing all power to critical processes. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Rebooting cognitive functions. Standby...</b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em>“Where the hell am I? What’s going on? What… what the hell did they do to me? </em>” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hey, Mister. Are you a robot?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“I guess I am.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Are you a bad robot?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“No. Is that why everybody’s keeping their distance?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Well, you can’t be too careful, my nan says. But if you’re not a bad robot, then it’s fine. I’m Jim. What’s your name?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“It’s… Nick. Nick Valentine.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Funny name for a robot. Pleased to meet you, Mister Nick.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>“First time I’ve ever met a talking synth.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Synth?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Like you? The people-shaped robots from the Institute.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“The… Institute…”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Aha, I see the problem. Can you lean this way a bit? I think if I just tweak this… here…” </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Can you hear me?” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The whole world was an empty black void. The flashes played before his consciousness like films projected on a cinema screen. Unfortunately, there were 75 projectors running at once, the films were only a few seconds long, and somebody cranked the surround sound up to full blast. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“May I buy you a drink, Miss?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Oh, my. Really looking the part, aren’t you?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“What can I say? I’m a man of particular tastes. The name’s Nick.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Jennifer. I would love a gin and tonic, please and thank you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Valentine. I need you to listen.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’d like to call the prosecution’s next witness, Detective Nick Valentine, Chicago PD.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Whoa! Get a fucking load of this guy! You one of those synff things?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Keep moving, freak. Mind your business.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Explosives armed. Detonation in… beep… beep… beep… beep…”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“You should be able to hear me, and be able to respond. Can you say something?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Jenny Lands. Will you make me the happiest man alive?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oh my God, Nick. Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Detective Valentine, on behalf of the Boston Police Department, welcome to Operation Winter’s End.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“For his act of heroism, Mister Valentine has earned his place here in Diamond City. I want everyone to welcome him like they would any other resident, and if anyone has a problem with it, they can take it up with me.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Excuse me? Nick? I was wondering if you could help me…” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Sure, sure. That pump go out again?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"No, not the pump. It’s… Robbie. He’s missing.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>"Your internal power core was damaged. I’m going to need to switch you over to an alternate source.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“C’mon Skinny. Let me finish him off. The boys are all gonna think you’ve gone soft if you let that freak go free.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Darla, I’ve got it under control, okay? Just-- lay off and let me think.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I need to make sure your cognitive processes don’t fail while I’m switching it over.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Hello? Are you… the detective? Nick Valentine?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Gotta love the irony of the reverse damsel-in-distress scenario.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“My name is Nora. Nora Carter. My baby was kidnapped. I need your help.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Nick? Can you hear me?” </p><p> </p><p>“What’s happening? I can’t see. I can’t--” </p><p> </p><p>“Stay calm. We’re going to handle this. Do you understand what I’m saying?” </p><p> </p><p>“Who are you?” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Nickyyyy! Yes, Nicky, just who I wanted to see!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Vadim. What can I do for you?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“I have proposition for you, my friend. New batch of moonshine. I need to see if--” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Power supply at 51% and dropping. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Critical failure imminent. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>“-- Focus, Nick.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p>“Tell me your name.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s… Nick. Valentine.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good. Focus on my voice, Nick.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Nick! How was Goodneighbor?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Same dive it always is. You were keeping your eyes out, after all. Didn’t even see me waving at you.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“What are you talking about?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Following me again, eh Piper?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Well you know, Nick, if you started inviting me on the juicy investigations--”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“--hear me? Focus!” </p><p> </p><p>“Fo...cus…” </p><p> </p><p>“Do you hear me?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p> </p><p>“Whatever you’re hearing or seeing, I need you to listen to my voice, and only my voice. Understand?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” He latched onto the voice like a life preserver. The visions and flashes and voices kept playing all around him, a tumultuous and stormy sea of sensory data. But if he held on…</p><p> </p><p>(He could still do a metaphor. That was a good sign? Probably?)</p><p> </p><p>“Am I… dying?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m doing my best, Nick. Right now, I need you to talk and keep talking.” </p><p> </p><p>“Talking…? About what?” </p><p> </p><p>“About anything and everything. Just don’t stop.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why?” </p><p> </p><p>“Routing power to your cognitive function will ensure it--” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You must be the famous Nick Valentine.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “In the flesh.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You’re a synth.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Good call, soldier. You a detective too?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“What a stunningly delusional machine. It not only believes it’s alive, it’s developed a smart mouth.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Nice to meet you too, pal.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Paladin. Paladin Danse. And if you have any sense of self-preservation, show a little respect to the Brotherhood of Steel, synth.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“-- alternate power supply. Are you ready?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Power supply at 43% and dropping. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Critical failure imminent.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Start talking on the count of three. One. Two…” </p><p> </p><p>He barely understood what was going on, but he understood enough. On the count of three, he started talking. Contrary to the impression he’d gotten from many people, it was surprisingly difficult to run his mouth without thinking. </p><p> </p><p>He started off talking about the basics. His name, his occupation, Diamond City. He described every shop in the market and who owned it. He talked about his last two cases in detail. Then he began to drift off. </p><p> </p><p>“Keep talking, Nick. Can you tell me about Jenny?” </p><p> </p><p>“How do you know Jenny?” </p><p> </p><p>“You said her name. Tell me about her.” </p><p> </p><p>So he did. She was whip-clever, and beautiful, and innocent. She was an office clerk. Nick met her at a jazz club and was smitten with her from the get go. They were engaged. He brought her to Boston. She was murdered.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry. She sounds very special.” </p><p> </p><p>“She was special. She was mine.” </p><p> </p><p>Well… </p><p> </p><p>“No. No, she wasn’t. But I love her. Nick--  he loved her. And I do too. I always will. I’ll always feel like it was me, whether I want to or not. No matter how much it hurts.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re doing well. I’m almost done.” </p><p> </p><p>"God. God, it hurts so bad. You’d never think it would hurt this bad. Loving someone. Loving someone you can’t… you can’t… ever…” </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Power supply at 21% and dropping.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Critical failure imminent.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“God damn it! Hang on!” </p><p> </p><p>“I-” </p><p> </p><p>“Nick, talk to me. Talk to me.” </p><p> </p><p>“I… don’t…” </p><p> </p><p>“Son of a bitch. Come on. Come on, I’m almost done. You have to keep talking.”</p><p> </p><p>“No...ra…” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Yes, that’s it. Let’s talk about Nora.” </p><p> </p><p>“No...ra. Nora.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me about Nora.” </p><p> </p><p>“She’s something else. She’s--” </p><p> </p><p>“She’s special too, isn’t she?” </p><p> </p><p>“She is. Never had a friend like her.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Me too.” </p><p> </p><p>“Smart and bold and sweet. After all she’s been through, all the beatings she’s taken, she’s still...  still so…” </p><p> </p><p>“Kind. And caring.” </p><p> </p><p>“You better believe it… I… I...”</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, Nick. A few more seconds.” </p><p> </p><p>“You know, if I wasn’t such a piece of junk… If it wasn’t this ugly mug looking back in the mirror… I...” </p><p> </p><p>“You what?” </p><p> </p><p>“If there’s one thing-- one damn thing in this world that’s… that’s mine and not his…”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Power supply stabilized. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Routing power to normal functions. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>“I got it. That’s it. It’s working.” </p><p> </p><p>“I love her.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nick-” </p><p> </p><p>“Nora. I’d drag down the moon for her. I’d do anything to make her happy. And even though I’m-- I’m this, this thing. Not even a man, but this ugly, broken excuse of a thing. I’ll never be enough for her, but still, she’s never… never… thought less of...” </p><p> </p><p>The other voice went silent. Whether it stopped speaking or if Nick stopped being able to hear it, he wasn’t sure.</p><p> </p><p>“It’ll never… happen… but if… just once… I could… kiss her…”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Error in cognitive functions.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Entering maintenance mode.</b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Rebooting… </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Cognitive functions: Nominal.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Running diagnostics. Analyzing… </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Core systems: Nominal. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Lower right limb actuator: Unresponsive </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>All other systems normal.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Nick’s consciousness came back online. </p><p> </p><p>He lay on his back on a worn-out yellow sofa cushion, sitting on a hard concrete floor. The room was small, musty, and cool. Uninsulated, a low ceiling, concrete walls, a heavy metal door hooked up to a chain drive. A garage. It was dark, apart from a single clamp-on worklight shining down on him, attached to the edge of a workbench. </p><p> </p><p>His chronometer said it was 9:47 PM. They’d been at the WBTN building a little after 7. But… no way. It had definitely been more than a few hours. Must be the next day, or even the day after. How long was he out, exactly?</p><p> </p><p>He was naked. Well, unclothed, rather: his hat, shirt, tie, slacks, and coat missing. The last thing he remembered clearly was the harrowing beep of a Corvega fusion engine about to blow roughly ten feet to his left. His clothes had probably been vaporized in the blast. Honestly, he was lucky the rest of him hadn’t been too. </p><p> </p><p>Time to get his bearings. Nick reached alongside the cushion to push himself upright, but suddenly jumped in shock. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That isn’t my arm. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The left arm. It was attached to him. It moved when and how he wanted it to. The servos were clean, the power couplings solid, the joints perfectly tuned. But it was covered by the clean plastic-composite “skin” that coated the bodies of gen-2 synths, skin that on Nick’s own arm was battered and dingy and starting to peel in places. This one was comparatively brand new. </p><p> </p><p>And so was his right arm, his spindly and skeletal hand covered with nimble plastic fingers once more. And so was his left leg, shiny and fresh, a stark contrast to his beaten-up old hips where it attached. His right leg was gone below the knee, the steel upper joint sticking out eerily bone-like, but a replacement already sat beside the cushion, screws and springs laid out in preparation. Several of the plates on his torso had also been swapped out for new ones. His left side, his lower back, over his chest. </p><p> </p><p>Nick touched his face. The same ragged “skin,” the same jagged separation in the jawline he knew. His same old ugly mug. </p><p> </p><p>So all in all, he’d had roughly half of his body replaced. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t an unpleasant discovery, just alarming. Off-putting, a bit, and disorienting. His old limbs had been on the fast track to the scrapheap, but he was used to them and they were his. These new ones felt better, moved better, were better, but they <em> weren’t </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Well. He’d once come to terms with his entire body “becoming” mechanical. He’d get used to replacement parts soon enough. Maybe someday he’d get used to being the proverbial Ship of Theseus in synth form. </p><p> </p><p>Nick sat fully upright, and felt a sudden tug of resistance. He stilled and reached behind to find a wire sticking into his lower back, tangled through his inner workings. Carefully shifting to keep from pulling it, he turned to look behind him. The wire was attached to a lunchbox-sized battery, sitting on the garage floor. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That’s right. My power core.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>All old synths were equipped with a small but mighty “battery” of sorts, a power core that kept their processes working and their parts moving. For how long? No clue. Nick never had any issues with it in his entire existence, however long that was-- or at least not when he could remember it. </p><p> </p><p>The important thing was, it fell under the category of “core processes.” When the power core goes out, the cognitive functions stop working and the synth shuts down. This battery was currently the only thing keeping him from dropping like the pile of parts he was. </p><p> </p><p>Alongside the new leg there was a toolbox on the floor, wrenches and screwdrivers and pliers and other things scattered about. Near the garage door lay two deactivated gen-2 synths. They had both been partially dismantled, some of their plastic plating stripped away, inner wiring and components removed.</p><p> </p><p>And to his left, against the wall, Danse lay hard asleep on a second couch cushion. His boots, pants, and jacket were off, leaving him in his black tank and boxers. His right arm and left leg were wrapped with bloody bandages. A bag of RadAway hung from a makeshift rack above him, the tube stuck into his bandaged arm, and the remnants of two stimpaks and a ransacked first aid kit lay nearby.</p><p> </p><p>If Nick could breathe, he would have forgotten to. </p><p> </p><p>An incredibly vivid image played out in his head. Danse, bleeding, injured, somehow digging Nick out of the wreckage. Dragging him through the streets to find this garage. Laying out what was left of him, spilling the toolbox, digging through the pile with shaking hands. Opening him up. Wiring him up to the battery, coaching him through to keep him functioning until he was stabilized. Scavenging those synths, picking them for parts. Slowly and methodically restoring Nick’s broken body and limbs. It must have taken hours. <em> Hours </em>. </p><p> </p><p>And somewhere in the middle of it all, Danse found a few minutes to undress and treat his own wounds. When? How long? How bad were his injuries? How difficult was it to carry Nick all this way with a hurt arm and leg, at the very least? How much pain had he ignored and pushed through in favor of his work, until exhaustion finally took him out across the room? </p><p> </p><p>Nick should be dead. No, not dead-- he can’t die if he isn’t alive. He should have been <em> destroyed </em>, left to cease existing in a pile of rubble, a broken heap of parts indistinguishable from all the other synths. </p><p> </p><p>But he wasn’t-- and it was all thanks to <em> Danse </em>. </p><p> </p><p>The enormity of the realization was a hell of a lot to wrap his head around. Nick would have liked more than a few minutes’ privacy to do it, too, but Danse suddenly stirred. Ever the soldier, he apparently slept lightly with one eye open. </p><p> </p><p>He blinked groggily, then seemed to remember where he was and who he was with. “Valentine.” Danse pushed himself upright. “Are you all right?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he replied. “Yeah, I’m… I’m more all right than I ought to be.” </p><p> </p><p>“Outstanding.” Danse leaned against the wall behind him, moving sluggishly, still pained. He rested his head back and took a few deep breaths. “Glad to hear it.” </p><p> </p><p>That was it? That was all he had to say? </p><p> </p><p>Nick gestured at himself. “You really did all this?”</p><p> </p><p>“Affirmative. I did my best under the circumstances.” </p><p> </p><p>“You did--” Nick broke off stammering. “You did great. Better than great.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you. I was unable to finish your right leg before I was too fatigued to continue, but I can take care of that in short order.” Danse spoke like they were talking about yardwork or car repairs and not Nick’s entire body. “The limb assembly and connections were all fairly straightforward, but if anything feels off, I can adjust--” </p><p> </p><p>“Danse,” Nick interrupted him. “You saved my life.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse looked briefly confused at the gravity in his tone, as though this was a perfectly ordinary and expected thing to have done. “Yes. I suppose I did.” </p><p> </p><p>“How? How the hell did you know how to do all this?” </p><p> </p><p>“In truth, I didn’t,” he said. “I-- truly, I mean no offense in this phrasing, but I didn’t think about it in terms of saving a life. If a machine breaks, I open it and see how it’s put together, what the parts do, how to fix it. I learn as I work.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse reached alongside himself for a roll of gauze. “I did the same with you. You needed to be fixed, and I knew I was capable. I didn’t think about it beyond that.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick was fairly used to the soldier’s stern, even tone of voice by now. But the casual way he spoke about literally piecing Nick’s body back together… there was <em> so </em>much more to it than the apparently (to Danse) uninteresting news that Danse was a goddamn mechanical savant. </p><p> </p><p>And now Nick was getting upset, and he didn’t know why. He could hardly get a handle on his voice, currently wavering somewhere between disbelieving and hysterical. “So you-- you pulled me out of the rubble. You were injured, and you dragged me out and-- and you did all this?” </p><p> </p><p>“At the risk of sounding insensitive, there wasn’t much left of you to drag.” </p><p> </p><p>Oh har-dee-har-har. “You could have died! How badly were you hurt?” </p><p> </p><p>“Several gunshot wounds to my arm and leg. One in my hip. A concussion, and radiation poisoning.” Danse motioned to the empty RadAway bag. He pulled the tube and needle out of his arm and quickly wrapped the puncture with the gauze. “Otherwise, severe bruising. Nothing rest and moderate medical treatment can’t mitigate.” </p><p> </p><p>“And you still--” Nick’s voice somehow creaked in his throat. “You <em> saved </em>me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course I did.” He frowned. “Are you all right?” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Do I goddamn sound all right? </em>” </p><p> </p><p>“Valentine, you survived a serious, traumatic event.” Danse gave him a serious but sympathetic look. “Your agitation is completely understandable. If you need to talk about it, I can listen, if you think that would--” </p><p> </p><p>“Why are you so goddamn calm about this?” Nick burst out. “Jesus, Danse! I have never-- I have <em> never </em> been blown to bits like this. I’ve never been this damaged. I’ve never come so close to biting it, and you-- <em> you </em>of all people-- you risk your own life, you go to all this trouble, you do all this work on me--” </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t like him to lose his composure like this, to get so heated his coolant pump was speeding up to compensate. But the full gravity of the situation was sinking in. He was stunned. He was scared. It was like the earth and sky had switched places, and Danse was upside-down, shrugging at him, saying he hadn’t noticed a difference.</p><p> </p><p>“You saved my life. You did all of this-- for me.” He looked at Danse plaintively. “Why?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn’t I?” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> I’m a synth </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t matter.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick fell silent. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t you remember what you told me? Being a synth doesn’t matter. Not in this,” Danse said sharply. “You may be made of machinery, but that isn’t <em> who </em>you are. You’re a good man, Valentine. A man who serves the greater good, and who puts others before himself without a second thought. You give kindness and courtesy to people who don’t even deserve it. People you don’t even believe would do the same for you.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse made a little self-deprecating smile. He thumped a fist against his shoulder, indicating the bullet Nick intercepted for him before. (An entire shoulder ago.) </p><p> </p><p>“I may be a synth, too. But I’m also a soldier. And a soldier doesn’t leave a good man behind. Especially not his partner.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick stared, utterly incapable of finding the words he wanted. </p><p> </p><p>Danse. Disgraced ex-Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel. A big, brawny, stubborn giant of a man, stiff and uptight and awkward. Serious to the point of farce, principled to the point of dogmatism, selfless to a fault. A synth, fumbling to put together the shattered pieces of himself. A soldier who wouldn’t leave a good man to die, or fail, or deactivate, no matter what personal pain and trouble it caused him. </p><p> </p><p>Nick’s partner. For the first time, that word occurred to him as more than a flippant joke. They were more than the enemies of their enemies. More than grudging allies. More than companions of convenience. They were <em> partners </em>. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” he said at last. “Danse, really… thank you.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome.” He nodded solemnly. “It’s the least I could do, after all you’ve done for me.” </p><p> </p><p>“What? The lectures and the pep talks?” </p><p> </p><p>“If you must be facetious, then yes.” Danse gave the smallest, most sheepish of smiles. “But you know it’s more than that. I am… grateful to have you along with me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Likewise, Danse.” Nick smirked. “You’re a hell of a partner.”</p><p> </p><p>They drifted into a comfortable silence, for once. Nick took those minutes he wanted before to contemplate his mortality (or the synth equivalent) and find some equilibrium on the matter. Danse set to checking on his wounds, unwrapping the bandages and folding them neatly aside. There were dark pink marks on his arm, fresh skin where the bullet wounds had been mended by the stimpaks. He was lucky to be alive. </p><p> </p><p>They both were, given last night’s conga line of escalating disasters. They went from calmly sharing drinks at the Third Rail to getting gunned down and blown up by a Brotherhood vertibird with an incredibly bad sense of timing. </p><p> </p><p>And there in the middle of it all, at the center of all the drama, there was a pretty little blonde dame with a sweet smile and a mean streak.</p><p> </p><p>Once Danse had seen to his injuries, he pulled on his pants and came over to finish reassembling Nick’s leg. Nick reclined back on the cushion and stared up at the ceiling, the better not to play backseat mechanic. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, he distracted himself by talking out loud about the developments in their case. “Dr. Lacey Vaughn. Formerly of the Institute. The ‘Exile,’ kidnapper and killer of synths.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s unsurprising that one of their vile castoffs would end up at the center of this.” Danse glowered as he tightened up some tension springs. “How abhorrently must someone behave to be ejected from the Institute, of all places?” </p><p> </p><p>“Whatever it was, she clearly didn’t take it well. And whatever it was, it didn’t sour her on their damn ethics too much.” She was still determined to “fix” the “problem” of synths with free will. No matter how many innocents she had to mow down to do it. </p><p> </p><p>“You seemed to read her extremely well, in our short conversation.” </p><p> </p><p>“The Institute’s got recall codes when they need to ‘fix’ a synth. If she was with Synth Retention, then she used to have access to the codes, equipment, and anything else.” Nick shook his head. “But out here, cut off? She’s got to come up with some other way to reset their minds. Hence the clumsy experiments.” </p><p> </p><p>“And what does she hope to accomplish once she figures it out?”</p><p> </p><p>"I don’t know. Maybe she hopes the Institute’s so impressed they take her back. Maybe she keeps building her little synth army and sends them in to trash the place.” Nick scowled. “Whatever it is, she can’t be left to her devices. She’s hurt too many people already.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse nodded fiercely. He briefly chewed his lip as he adjusted a screw. “I wish I knew why she’s so interested in me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, me too. She obviously knew you way back whenever.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve been considering that, when I’ve had the chance to think.” He sighed. “I don’t remember, of course. But something about the way she looked at me, and spoke to me… it puts me on edge. Something I can’t recall or even define, just…” </p><p> </p><p>Danse paused, trying to find the words for what he meant. “It’s uneasiness. Revulsion. Like I’m... afraid. But I’ve forgotten why I should be.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick still barely knew anything about the Institute, but Nora had explained to him a bit about the departments and the structure she’d witnessed during her visit. “Synth Retention handles the escaped synths. If you were a runaway, you knew damn well to be afraid of them.” </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe.” Danse shook his head. “Whatever the case, I despise her. And I’m going to put a stop to her careless violence. I won’t let Nora suffer any longer in the hands of that lunatic.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. She’s got Nora. Alive and safe, allegedly.” Nick still didn’t know if he believed Lacey, but it was better than hearing they were already too late. “We still don’t know why.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse swapped from his screwdriver to a pair of pliers. “She mentioned… she was ‘uninspiring.’ Not useful, like she thought. And ‘Father’s mother?’”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever the hell that means.” Nick leaned his head back against the wall behind him. “Y’know, as steamed at myself as I am, something tells me she wasn’t really going to let me find Nora.” </p><p> </p><p>“I sincerely doubt it. She’s a murderous liar and a scoundrel,” Danse muttered. “She claimed the location was on her terminal, rather than telling you outright. At best, I expect she would have escorted me out, then remotely ordered the synths to kill you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good call.” Nick thought for a moment. “Though now you mention it, I wonder if the terminal was real.” </p><p> </p><p>“In the control room?” Danse paused, mid-grip on a bolt. “Perhaps it is. There may still be information on it that we could use.” </p><p> </p><p>“Too bad the place’ll be overrun with her synths.” </p><p> </p><p>“No. It won’t.” Danse’s eyes widened with realization. “That Brotherhood patrol was going to sweep the building. They’ll have eliminated any threats they encountered within, and tagged the technology for retrieval.” </p><p> </p><p>“Retrieval? Including the terminal?” </p><p> </p><p>“An ordinary terminal would be the least interesting object in that location. Broadcasting equipment, recording devices-- perhaps even holotapes or other media,” Danse mused, as though to himself. “Yes. It’s been at least 24 hours since the vertibird arrived. They’ll have finished by now. The studio is likely empty, and we’ll have time to get in and out quickly.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank God.” At least the damn Brotherhood could do them an incidental favor after last night’s mess. “There’s gotta be something there to point the way.” </p><p> </p><p>“I certainly hope so.” Danse finished reassembling Nick’s knee joint, the new limb attached. He had him move and test it to ensure it was properly connected, then he set to affixing the plates that protected the machinery within. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re two blocks away from the studio, here. It won’t take long to get back. I would estimate another ten minutes on this repair, and then you’ll be something close to good as new.” He offered Nick another gentle smirk. “Feel up to moving out?” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re asking me?” Nick scoffed. “I’m the one with shiny new arms and legs.” </p><p> </p><p>“Mine are fine. I’m feeling a little sluggish from the RadAway, but far better than before I slept,” said Danse. “I worked as long as I could. It was about an hour before sundown when I lay down to rest.”</p><p> </p><p>“How long were you working on me?” </p><p> </p><p>“Discounting the time it took to recover those synths for parts? Twelve hours.” </p><p> </p><p>“Goodness. You stayed up <em> twelve hours </em> playing repairman?” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s nothing. I was recently awake for four days putting the finishing touches on my X-01 suit.”</p><p> </p><p>A few minutes later, he tightened the last screw. Nick’s right leg was complete. With a friendly little tap of the screwdriver, Danse released him. “Mission accomplished.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks. Feels great.” He could hardly remember what it was like to have all the parts in that knee. Less creaky and wobbly, certainly.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to take another stimpak and have something to eat. We’ll head out in fifteen minutes,” said Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“Right. Take your time.” Nick moved to sit more comfortably on his cushion, and resisted the urge to find something to cover up with. He intensely disliked looking like some random anonymous synth. Stripped of his identity. Exposed. And it wasn’t like there was anything to look at on him, but a guy still had his sense of modesty. </p><p> </p><p>Though honestly, covering up now was pretty pointless. Danse had seen basically every part of him in intimate detail, from the inside out.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t suppose my clothes made it.” </p><p> </p><p>“I did find your hat.” Danse gestured atop the workbench. “And what little remains of your shirt and coat. Less than half of it, I’m afraid. Your shoes were missing, and your trousers were beyond saving.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, better them than my head.” Nick rubbed his newly-intact right hand over the bald plates. How long had it been since he’d had this much sensation in that arm? At least 30 years, by his count. “Really, this is great. You did a hell of a job.”</p><p> </p><p>“Operating correctly?” </p><p> </p><p>“Better than it has in years.” </p><p> </p><p>“Outstanding.” Danse pulled a small bag of jerky out of his pack. “Honestly, despite my unfamiliarity with early-gen synth parts, I found the process rather intuitive. It came quite naturally to me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Even the power core?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” He glanced grimly down at the battery. “Unfortunately, I was unable to find an intact replacement. I didn’t have much time to look, though. If we scour the studio, odds are we will find at least one synth with a working core, and I can replace it properly.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure, sure.” Until then, he’d lug the damn thing around like a particularly heavy briefcase. “Appreciate the quick thinking, in any case. How’d you know to route power to cognitive processes?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s a similar concept to a Code Proxima emergency fusion core maneuver,” said Danse, and then went on to describe in mind-numbing detail something to do with focusing emergency power in critical components of power armor. It took at least two minutes.</p><p> </p><p>Nick got the gist of it, anyway. “Smart,” he said. “I’m hardly an expert on my own inner workings, but I’m not sure what kind of memory damage happens if my cognition runs out of juice. Talking would have kept the…” </p><p> </p><p>Talking. He’d done a lot of talking. He didn’t even remember most of it, but Danse had kept him going at least five minutes while he changed over the battery. </p><p> </p><p>“I was pretty out of it. There was a lot of static. Flashes, and things that were…” Nick paused. He furrowed his brow. “What was I talking about, anyway?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse did not have much of a poker face. His eyebrows rose a few inches, then quickly lowered back to their ordinary stern position. “You said a lot. Little of it made sense. You spoke about Diamond City.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah…” That sounded right. “And I remember… Jenny?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. You spoke of her.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” Well, that was uncomfortable. Nick didn’t like to go around blabbing the deep, dark secrets he’d inherited from the former Nick Valentine. Particularly not those about a woman he would always love, even without ever knowing her. </p><p> </p><p>“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You were clearly in no state to filter yourself.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I guess not.” Half-out of his gourd, malfunctioning, running his mouth, he was probably an open book. But it could have been much worse. He could have started talking about-- </p><p> </p><p>Nick froze. His eyes widened. He looked at Danse. There must have been horror in his expression, because an uneasy frown grew slowly on the soldier’s face. </p><p> </p><p>Oh <em> no </em>. </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t… say anything about… Nora, did I?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s eyebrows did the rising thing again, and this time lowered with the rest of his expression into a wince. </p><p> </p><p>Well. <em> Well </em>. Jesus god damn Jiminy Christmas Christ. </p><p> </p><p>Nick brought his hand up, slowly sliding it over his eyes. On the bright side, the new fingers made it easier to hide the utter shame radiating from his expression.</p><p> </p><p>There was an agonizing, humiliating minute of total awkward silence.</p><p> </p><p> “Nick,” Danse said very carefully. “I understand--” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t. God, please don’t.” </p><p> </p><p>“There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”</p><p> </p><p>“Danse. Really, don’t. I can’t--” </p><p> </p><p>“I love her too.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick lowered his hand to see the soldier looking at him like he’d never seen him before. Gentle, reassuring, those big brown eyes primed in weaponized soft mode. “The two of you have a powerful bond. I can hear it in her voice whenever she speaks of you.” </p><p> </p><p>Oh my God. Oh my God. This was not happening. They were not having this conversation. If he closed his eyes and wished hard enough, would he reappear back under the car? </p><p> </p><p>“She’s lucky to have you.” Danse had this uncanny ability to be simultaneously blunt and deeply emotionally piercing at the same time, and all in the gentlest, most understanding voice Nick had ever heard out of him. “I know you occupy an important role in her heart. I want you to know, if something were ever to develop between you--”  </p><p> </p><p>“It won’t,” Nick interrupted. “Believe me, it won’t.” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t think it could?” </p><p> </p><p>“I won’t let it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m lucky enough to have her friendship. That’s all I need. That’s what she wants.” </p><p> </p><p>“It isn’t your decision what she wants.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re right. It’s not.” He looked away, so he wouldn't accidentally stare or glare at Danse. “But I already know it isn’t me.”</p><p> </p><p>In his spot against the wall, Danse looked away too. He didn’t say anything for several minutes. </p><p> </p><p>“I love Nora,” he said softly, at last. “More than anything, I want her to be happy. Whatever that means to her. Whether or not it’s with me. No matter what happens, I’m pleased she has someone else who cares about her. Someone good and decent like you.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick wasn’t sure what he’d expected Danse to say about it. Mocking and taunting him for his feelings. Embarrassed sulking or glaring, like they’d become rivals. A righteous challenge for her honor, maybe. But he certainly hadn’t expected humility. Grace. Sincere concern for Nora’s happiness above all else. </p><p> </p><p>Then again, maybe he should have. A cruel, boorish, jealous oaf wouldn’t suit Nora. Wouldn’t be the sort of man she fell in love with. </p><p> </p><p>They whittled away a few more agonizingly awkward minutes. Nick, piecing together what was left of his dignity. Danse, patiently waiting for him to do so. </p><p> </p><p>“Listen. Danse. Whatever I said when I was… I wasn’t thinking clearly.” </p><p> </p><p>“No. Given the circumstances, of course not.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’re friends. It’s a crush. It’s not-- it’s nothing you should take seriously, or put any stock into.”</p><p> </p><p>“I understand.” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t tell her,” Nick murmured. “Please.”</p><p> </p><p>“I won’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“Whenever we find her, whatever happens, just--” He closed his eyes. “It’s not her problem. It’s mine. I don’t want her to know.” </p><p> </p><p>“I won’t tell anyone, Nick. Everything you said stays between us,” Danse assured him. “You were in a vulnerable state. You had no control over what you were saying, and were unable to consent to the work I was doing on you. It would be disgracefully cruel to offer anything less than my strictest confidence.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you. Honestly. I… really appreciate it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Think nothing of it. You’ve offered the same to me on several occasions, now.” Danse moved to stand up. “We’ll never speak of it again.” </p><p> </p><p>God willing. And God willing he would suffer a sudden memory blip to mercifully wipe this entire conversation out of his brain forever. He was going to wake up cringing about this for ages, and he didn’t even goddamn sleep. </p><p> </p><p>Time to focus on something else. Anything else. The studio. The terminal. Time to get going. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m as ready as I’m going to get,” said Nick, standing up. His new legs wobbled briefly beneath him, unused to precision and sturdiness when he moved. “There any, I don’t know… pants around here that’d fit me? Maybe a jacket?” </p><p> </p><p>“There’s a cabinet over there with some clothing in it.” Danse pointed to a wooden storage cabinet near the garage door. </p><p> </p><p>“Great.” Nick grabbed his slightly scorched fedora and dress shirt from the workbench and put it on. His coat was scorched too, and had been reduced to roughly a third of its proper size. He’d be keeping the remains to give it a proper funeral later on (and maybe finally dig out the newer one Ellie bought him for Christmas a few years back. The man had his aesthetic preferences, damn it.) </p><p> </p><p>In the meantime, he needed something to keep his body covered up to his comfort levels. Hopefully there was something that didn’t look awful on him in the cabinet. </p><p> </p><p>And hopefully, Danse was right. That the Brotherhood would have finished their sweep of the WBTN building hours ago. That there was something for Nick and Danse to find. They had their man, or woman, as it were. Now all they needed was another clue. A scrap. Anything Dr. Lacey Vaughn left behind that could guide them forward. </p><p> </p><p>“Valentine,” said Danse as he finished putting on his jacket. “Pardon me if this is prying, but I’m curious. Who performs that song?” </p><p> </p><p>“What song?” </p><p> </p><p>“I believe it’s called ‘Kiss to Build a Dream On?’” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, Louis Armstrong, most famously. Bing Crosby. Peggy Lee-- Wait.” Nick raised an eyebrow. “Where did you hear that?” </p><p> </p><p>“You kept singing it, while you were malfunctioning.” </p><p> </p><p>“I kept--” His voice dropped like a rock down a bottomless pit. </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t say your musical talent was worth praising, but I’d never heard it before. I’d like to look it up somewhere, if I ever have the opportunity.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Danse. You can lift this battery, right?” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” </p><p> </p><p>“Could you do me a favor?” </p><p> </p><p>“Certainly. What?” </p><p> </p><p>“Bludgeon me to death with it.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We interrupt this mystery plot to bring you the author repeatedly stabbing herself in the feels. </p><p>This whole cliffhanger Brotherhood-near-miss-blowing-up-Nick-disaster-angstfest was the other thing I knew I wanted to happen at some point, and I've been greatly anticipating it. I've spent a lot of time raining down blows on Danse's dignity and wanted to make sure Nick got his fair share too. </p><p>I love Nick/Sole and had loads of fun with this one. Nick is honestly just the best guy in the Commonwealth and deserves all good things and happy dreams and shiny new limbs. I could talk at length about my feelings on the dynamics between him and Danse and Nora that I'm going for here, but I will spare this note and scream about it on Tumblr instead.</p><p>We now return you to your regularly scheduled mystery plot. </p><p>Next chapter: New clues, a call for help, and the first 24 hours of Danse's life.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Back In The Saddle Again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A new clue, a call for help, and the first 24 hours of Danse's life.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had been an eventful 24 hours, to say the least. Much of it still felt surreal, like he had never quite woken up from dreaming. But if this was a dream, it was the best Danse had ever had.</p><p> </p><p>That was a somewhat surprising assessment, considering he was sitting in the Rivet City Clinic holding a cold compress to his broken left hand. He pulled it away and gave his fingers a test squeeze, wincing as pain shot through them. </p><p> </p><p>“Keep pressure on it, please.” Dr. Preston’s glasses glinted in the light as he threaded a needle. “I need the swelling down before I can apply a stimpak.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Doctor.” He replaced the compress quickly. “Sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>“Danse, was it?” The doctor gave a bemused little smile. “I haven’t seen you around. You must be new to our fair city.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes and no. I’ve been here before. It’s been… some time since my last visit.”</p><p> </p><p>How long, exactly? Danse had trouble remembering.</p><p> </p><p>It had been three months since he stopped in any city at all, and even longer since he’d crossed the grand bridge of Rivet City’s beached aircraft carrier. He rarely stayed away from civilization that long, but his last risky ruin-dive had borne fruit beyond his wildest imagination. Most of the canning factory was a total loss, but crawling deeper into the rubble he’d found an unspoiled wing of machinery, covered with dust and a little rusty, but intact.</p><p> </p><p>Once he cleared out the ferals, he had the entire place to himself. He stayed for weeks, sleeping in one of the old offices, supplementing his rations with the cans of food scattered throughout the factory (and if he never ate pork and beans again in his life, it’d be too soon.) He spent his days scrapping. Aluminum, copper, fiber-optics, circuitry, all his for the picking, neatly stripped and secured in his backpack. He’d never had such a great haul in all his life. </p><p> </p><p>Then Danse made his way back across the Capital Wasteland, stopping in Arefu, Canterbury Commons, and Megaton, trading scrap for caps along the way. He lost track of what he’d traded and how much it brought in, but it was <em> enough </em>. Finally, finally he had enough to pay for a trader’s license in Rivet City. A stall of his own in the marketplace. A room of his own in the hangar. A place to live, and work, and survive, and exist as something more than a ghost haunting the wasteland.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s right. I heard there was a new trader moving in.” Dr. Preston frowned slightly. “So you’ve been here less than a day? What a welcome this must have been.” </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t take it personally,” said Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“Glad to hear it.” Dr. Preston finished prepping his needle, then stepped up to the other patient sitting on the examination table. “Now, another week, another set of stitches for Mister Cutler.” </p><p> </p><p>“C’mon, Doc, I’ve been on my best behavior.” Cutler was a well-built man with a deep voice, dark skin, a goatee, and close-shorn textured hair. He currently sported a huge gash on the side of his head. </p><p> </p><p>“‘Best behavior.’ That’s how you got this severe laceration on your scalp.” </p><p> </p><p>“Strictly speaking, Doc, that was the beer bottle.” Cutler grit his teeth as the doctor began stitching.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that what caved Sister’s nose in?”</p><p> </p><p>“No.” Danse’s shoulders tensed a bit. “That would be my left fist.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not his fault. He was defending himself,” said Cutler. “That mean fuck Sister likes to pick on new faces.” </p><p> </p><p>“I dare say <em> Sister’s </em>going to need a new face after this,” muttered the doctor.</p><p> </p><p>“Good.” Cutler chuckled. “Maybe Chief Harkness’ll finally throw the rat bastard overboard.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe so,” said the doctor with a slightly wishful sigh. “After I reassemble his orbital bones.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.” Danse squirmed in his seat. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry about it, Danse. Serves the asshole right,” said Cutler. “Being the local tough-fuck is all fun and games ‘til you pick on a guy with a cannon for an arm.”</p><p> </p><p>Three hours ago, Danse had been sitting alone in the city’s bar, the Muddy Rudder. Over a hot meal and a cold beer, he’d been pleasantly basking in the ambiance. The presence of other people. The knowledge he had a place to sleep tonight, a safe and comfortable room that actually belonged to him. And not just tonight, but tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after for the foreseeable future. </p><p> </p><p>A burly man passed by his table. He had a cruel smile and a look in his eyes that Danse long ago learned to recognize. Calculating, cunning, quick to spot an opportunity. A predator, looking for someone to prey on. </p><p> </p><p>Naturally, he zeroed in on the lone man, a newcomer. His voice was slick and cocky. “Hey, bitch. You new around here?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse initially tried to ignore him. There was nothing to be gained by letting these wasteland tough-types get a reaction. It would either worsen his aggression or lead to a fight, and a man his size likely had brute strength to back up his harassment.</p><p> </p><p>The man got more aggressive anyway. “I’m talkin’ to you, shithead.” He knocked Danse’s beer out of his hand and onto the floor. </p><p> </p><p>There was a thin line between non reactive and passive. At a certain point it became necessary to push back, to show that you weren’t a victim who’d sit there and take it. Danse stood, glowering at the man, tightening his fists. With any luck, the bully wouldn’t be prepared for someone to stand up to him. </p><p> </p><p>Then interference came from an unexpected place.</p><p> </p><p>“God, Sister, will you fuck off?” The man at the table behind him stood up and turned around. “Leave the new guy alone.” </p><p> </p><p>The bully, whose name was somehow “Sister,” sneered. “Mind your own business, Cutler.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why don’t you, you fuckin’ asshole? Everybody’s sick of hearing your shitty voice.” Given the drunken chorus of “oohs” and grunts of encouragement from the patrons around them, Cutler was correct in this assessment. </p><p> </p><p>Fury lit Sister’s predatory eyes as he turned all his ire to Cutler. “Say it again, bitch.” </p><p> </p><p>Cutler grinned. “Go piss on a mirelurk, fuckface.” </p><p> </p><p>Sister and Cutler launched at each other, grappling and punching. The patrons around them whooped and cheered. Behind the bar, the old woman started shrieking for them to take it outside. Sister had a height advantage, but Cutler had immense strength in his solid frame and the pair seemed evenly matched.</p><p> </p><p>Until Sister swung his hand back and grabbed a beer bottle from a nearby table,  shattering it against the side of Cutler’s head. </p><p> </p><p>Cutler staggered and Sister moved in for the proverbial kill, but he wouldn’t get the chance. Danse lunged for him, grabbed the front of his shirt, then punched him square in the face. A burst of blood erupted from his nose and with a second blow to the chin, Sister dropped to the floor, out cold. </p><p> </p><p>Another chorus of “oohs” and hisses of sympathetic pain sounded around them as Danse stood over the fallen hooligan, victorious. </p><p> </p><p>Blood trickled down the side of Cutler’s face as he went down to a knee. Danse offered him help up. As Cutler squeezed his hand, his knuckles screamed with agony. He would later find out this was the hairline fracture he developed in the process of rearranging Sister’s face.  </p><p> </p><p>“Holy shit,” Cutler slurred, dizzy from the blow. “Nice hook, man.” </p><p> </p><p>Five hours prior, Danse and Cutler had first met in the marketplace. </p><p> </p><p>Danse was in the process of cleaning up his new stall. It was less a “stall” and more the unfinished corner of a row of them, but he was already proud of it. He stacked up the garbage and debris and already pondered how he would display his wares. Solid, heavier junk on the floor. Expensive and valuable scrap in a lockbox near the back. He could string lights along the top and build shelves for the glass jars of small or fragile components. Catch eyes, give the stall a warm and welcoming atmosphere. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, neighbor.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse turned around. The man at the stall next door was looking at him around their shared wall. His expression read somewhere between curious and suspicious. </p><p> </p><p>Wanting to make a good impression, Danse smiled (somewhat awkwardly) and offered a wave. “Hello. I’ve purchased a license to trade here.” </p><p> </p><p>“I figured.” He stepped around the wall and extended a handshake. “Welcome aboard. Name’s Cutler. General goods, which is the nice way of saying ‘whatever shit I get my hands on.’” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s a pleasure, Cutler. I’m Danse. I’m a scrapper.” </p><p> </p><p>“Like junk, or like fistfights?” </p><p> </p><p>“Junk,” Danse assured him, a remark that would be amusing in hindsight later. </p><p> </p><p>“Nice. Seems like there’s never enough parts and scrap to go around this old rustbucket.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m pleased to hear I’m filling a need.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hell yeah. Let me know when you get all set up, and maybe we can work out a trade. I’ve been looking for some bits for my goddamn radio.” Cutler gestured back to his own stall. “Hasn’t worked in weeks, so now I’m just replacing one thing at a time.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m somewhat low on parts at the moment.” Danse had sold most of his haul to pay for the license. “But let me take a look at your radio.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, are you handy?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” Danse smiled. “I have a knack for machines.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, well.” Cutler grinned. “I think I’m gonna like having you around, Danse.” </p><p> </p><p>“Likewise. Nice to meet you, Cutler.” </p><p> </p><p>It was quite the serendipitous meeting. Cutler seemed a friendly and pleasant fellow, and from a business perspective it was a boon to be next door to a general goods merchant. They could both benefit from referring customers to one another. And after many years of anonymity, of wandering in the wasteland without any home or presence, Danse was happy to have an acquaintance. Someone who knew his name, knew who he was, knew he existed at all. </p><p> </p><p>Odd though, that in all his previous visits, Danse couldn’t remember seeing Cutler. </p><p> </p><p>Well, perhaps not so odd. As the largest settlement in the Capital Wasteland, people came and went from Rivet City all the time. Danse did too, only visiting periodically to sell scrap and barter for supplies. But back then Danse was a filthy, scrawny, underfed teenage boy, lugging around a heavy backpack nearly as big as himself. Of course nobody recognized him now. Cutler certainly didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>And Security Chief Harkness didn’t either, despite Danse remembering him very clearly. Harkness was neat in appearance but rough in personality, the heavily-armed but fair and friendly man who always greeted him when he’d come to trade. </p><p> </p><p>Four hours prior, Danse sat before him in the security office, taking the final steps to secure his license. He handed over his 600 caps, jingling triumphantly in their heavy sack, and Harkness tucked them into a desk drawer.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks. Once we’re finished up here, I’ll show you to your stall, and your room down on the Hangar Deck.” Harkness handed him a pencil and paper. “Rules and regulations, business laws, stipulations for the use of your stall. Can you read them?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good. Take your time, then sign at the bottom.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse could read. Not well, but enough to understand what he was agreeing to do and not to do. It was a fortunate skill for a wasteland orphan to have. (When did he learn? Oh, of course. An old woman in Megaton. She used to read to the children there, and she taught him the basics out of the kindness of her heart. He couldn’t remember her name or her face, for some reason.) </p><p> </p><p>“You must have been saving a long time to get all these caps,” said Harkness.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, sir. I’ve been in the junk business as long as I can remember.” </p><p> </p><p>“Family business?” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t have a family.” Danse signed his name at the bottom of the paper and handed it over. “It’s always been just me.” </p><p> </p><p>“You made all this on your own?” Harkness whistled. “That’s damn impressive.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, sir. I made a good haul at a cannery.” </p><p> </p><p>“Where at?” </p><p> </p><p>“At…” Where was it? He couldn’t remember for several seconds. Then it came to him. “North. West of Arefu, I… think. Last month.” </p><p> </p><p>Harkness raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound certain.” </p><p> </p><p>“I apologize. My memory is somewhat foggy at the moment. I got into a scuffle on my way here and hit my head.”</p><p> </p><p>“Jeez. You all right? Need me to take you to the clinic?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, thank you. I’m fine. Just having some slight after-effects from the concussion.” </p><p> </p><p>“No problem. I was only curious.” Harkness signed the paper himself, shooting Danse a wry smile. “Man comes around with this many caps, and a good security chief wonders if he earned them honestly.” </p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely, sir.” </p><p> </p><p>“Doesn’t matter if you did or didn’t, I suppose. But now that you’re in my city, you do things the honest way. I don’t tolerate cheats or thugs. You prove to be a pain in my ass, and you can go take a hike with the rest of the wasteland scum. You work hard, you play nice, and you’ll be right at home. I hope I’ve made that very clear.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, sir. You have nothing to worry about from me.” </p><p> </p><p>“I got that feeling about you.” Harkness set the paperwork aside and stood up, extending a hand. “Congratulations and welcome to Rivet City, Danse.” </p><p> </p><p>It was an exhilarating feeling as he shook Harkness’ hand. Pride, accomplishment. Years and years of hard work and struggle, finally paying off. A bright future ahead of him, the brightest he’d ever known in his bleak life of lonely survival. </p><p> </p><p>And to think, he almost never made it here at all. </p><p> </p><p>Twelve hours prior, he’d woken up on a dingy mattress in a rundown shack that smelled simultaneously like mildew and soup. A faint, familiar voice was quite literally howling across the room. “If one dog’s not enough! And two is too low! Hey, boys and girls, it’s the Three-Dog Show! Comin’ to you live from Galaxy News Radio!” </p><p> </p><p>He tried to sit up but found it alarmingly difficult. Even the slightest motion was an effort, imprecise and clumsy. An agonizing pain throbbed through his head, drawing an involuntarily moan out of him.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, hey. Easy there.” Another voice. A woman. Friendly. A warm hand rested on his shoulder and she leaned over him. His vision was blurry, but he made out golden-brown skin and black hair tied up in a faded paisley bandana. “Don’t try to move yet. Just be still.”</p><p> </p><p>“What… happened?” </p><p> </p><p>“You took a hell of a knock on the head. I’m amazed you’re awake already.” Her face slowly came into focus. “What’s your name?” </p><p> </p><p>What was his name? It was… </p><p> </p><p>Ah. That’s right. “Danse.” </p><p> </p><p>“Danse. You can call me Ishmael.” </p><p> </p><p>Ishmael was a scavver like him, an experienced traveler. She’d been walking along when she saw him get into trouble with a group of mirelurks by the river. They’d chased him into a sewer tunnel. She rushed in to help, just in time to watch one of the big ones knock him over and slam his head into the side of the pipe. </p><p> </p><p>Yes. That sounded right. He remembered the water, the smell of rust. Ishmael lifting his arm over her shoulder and leading him through dark, cramped tunnels. The sudden brightness of the sky. Then she’d brought him to this little shack to recover. </p><p> </p><p>She gave him some broth to drink, a bottle of water, something for the headache. She asked him careful questions about who he was and where he came from, making sure his memory loss was only temporary. Fortunately, it all came back quickly. His name was Danse. He was a lone scavver, he scrapped and sold junk to live. He was on his way to Rivet City. He’d scored the caps he needed to buy a merchant’s license. He panicked that he may have lost them, but Ishmael had his backpack, his tools and equipment and caps safe inside. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re not far from Rivet City,” she said. “Why don’t you rest a little longer, then I’ll walk you there?” </p><p> </p><p>He gratefully slept a few more hours. When he woke, he was still a little groggy but feeling far better than before. They packed up and set out without incident, arriving at the beached aircraft carrier a little after noon. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you for your kindness, Ishmael,” said Danse. “I certainly wouldn’t have made it without your assistance.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome,” she said. “Hey, can you do me a favor when you get inside?” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course. What is it?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got a friend, Father Clifford. He runs Saint Monica’s Church. Could you stop by and tell him Ishmael says ‘hello?’”</p><p> </p><p>“Certainly. Though you could say hello yourself, while you’re here.” </p><p> </p><p>“Afraid not. I’ve got an urgent delivery to see to. But please pass that along to him.” </p><p> </p><p>“I will.” He nodded. “If all goes well, I should have a stall in the market very soon. Next time you’re in the neighborhood, please pay me a visit.” </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe I will.” Ishmael gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and a soft, fond smile. “Goodbye, Danse. Good luck.” </p><p> </p><p>He adjusted his backpack on his shoulder and headed for the bridge. On the other side awaited Rivet City, and a new, hopeful future. </p><p> </p><p>It was strange and eventful. It started with a concussion and ended with a broken hand. It started perilously and ended safe and secure. It started alone and it ended with new friends. </p><p> </p><p>It felt surreal, but it wasn’t a dream at all. It was the best 24 hours of his life. </p><p> </p><p>The first 24 hours of his brand new life. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>In his decade of service with the Brotherhood of Steel, Danse watched many good people die. Men and women, knights and paladins and scribes and initiates, and too many civilians. Some died in the so-called “glory” of battle. Others in freak accidents. Some he would never stop blaming himself for, and some he knew in his heart he never could have saved.</p><p> </p><p>Dawes died instantly. That super mutant sledge ended him in the blink of an eye. Keane was overrun by ferals in the same onslaught as the rest of them. They were barely keeping themselves alive, and if they’d stopped to aid him then they all might have died too. Brach was a tragic accident. They were making a hasty retreat with a gravely injured man, and one moment of inobservance and an active landmine cost the knight his life.</p><p> </p><p>They died in moments. Short of rearranging time and circumstance, no matter how guilty Danse felt for their deaths, he rationally knew there had been no way to save them. But Knight Worwick… </p><p> </p><p>Worwick was beyond saving, too, probably from the moment he was injured. Paralyzed, bleeding internally, on a slow and inevitable decline. Haylen still fought tooth and nail for him. For two days she labored for his life, and for two days he held on. But in the end, there was nothing to be done. Danse ordered her to give Worwick a peaceful death and in doing so hoped to place the failure on his own head instead of Haylen’s.</p><p> </p><p>Beyond basic first aid Danse was no medic, no miracle worker like Haylen. But now he understood firsthand how she must have felt then. Tense, anxious, sweating, giving absolutely everything he had to save a fading life. </p><p> </p><p>The irony, of course, was that Nick Valentine was not alive. He wasn’t even a person, by some definitions. If he was a human being, or at least a human body, then Danse would never have been able to help him. Machines were his forte, his comfort, the one thing in his life he was always confident about. And It still took every ounce of his discipline and energy and will to stay calm, to keep his hands steady, to put his skills to work when he knew, this time he <em> knew </em>he had the capability to save someone.</p><p> </p><p>He would never admit how scared he’d been. How daunting the prospect was that he’d lose Valentine, and be unable to save Nora on his own. He wasn’t smart enough, he wasn’t skilled enough, he wasn’t <em> good </em>enough to do this on his own. He couldn’t fathom being alone again. Facing it all alone because he’d failed again. Failed Valentine like he failed all the others. Let him down and let him die, another man lost, another fr…</p><p> </p><p>No. No, he would never be so presumptuous to assume he and Valentine were <em> friends </em>. The detective was merely tolerating him as a temporary ally, and would never consent to friendship with a hardheaded, hateful disgrace of a synth like Danse. But friends or not, partners or not, whatever it was they were now, Nick Valentine was a good man. He deserved better than to die broken in a pile of rubble. He deserved better than failure. </p><p> </p><p>Danse wouldn’t dare show that kind of vulnerability to Valentine. Thankfully, he had more than twelve hours to himself to wrestle with his feelings, to get them nicely sealed away inside him to deal with at another time. Indeed, the old synth had even been a little upset how calm Danse seemed, but that was preferable to causing him  worry about Danse’s feelings at a time like this.  </p><p> </p><p>It was Danse’s turn to be the steady one, the strong one, the supportive one. That’s how partnership works. </p><p> </p><p>The streets around the WBTN building were once again quiet, returned to their ordinary state of rubble-strewn disaster zone. The shattered bodies of dozens of synths were littered through the streets, like victims of a recent massacre. The crumpled remains of the fire escape and the exploded car stood like a landmark, a burnt-out husk in a pile of steel. Danse noticed Valentine looking long at it as they approached. </p><p> </p><p>Poor Valentine was not the picture of fashion at the moment. Along with his hat and scorched button-down shirt, he wore a set of green mechanic’s coveralls he’d found in the garage. Unfortunately, he could only zip them up to his waist with the wire attached to his makeshift battery in the way. He carried the battery by the handle like a heavy toolbox. Apart from the improvised power fix Valentine seemed in good working order, albeit a little unsteady on his new limbs. He staggered about, shuffled strangely, dragged his feet, and struggled to precisely control where he stepped. </p><p> </p><p>He brushed off Danse’s concern on the matter. “Still calibrating the new hardware. I’ll be fine.” </p><p> </p><p>“If you’re certain. I can adjust if it’s--” </p><p> </p><p>“No, no. Moving around is the best way to do it.” Valentine glanced down at the battery and chuckled in spite of himself. “Even if I look like I’m with the Ministry of Silly Walks.” </p><p> </p><p>“The what?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s a… oh, never mind. Really old reference.” </p><p> </p><p>It was truly good to see Valentine up and about. In Danse’s worst moments of dire panic over the past day, he’d longed for Valentine’s rational, good-natured voice to talk him down. On top of the uncanny act of tinkering with his dismantled body, hearing the sensible synth babbling uncontrollably like a malfunctioning holotape had been incredibly disturbing. </p><p> </p><p>The Brotherhood patrol had left the studio’s front doors open. More broken synths lay scattered throughout the lobby, all dotted with the telltale scorch marks of heavy laserfire. If there was one bright spot in the patrol arriving when they did, they had likely destroyed the majority of Lacey’s hijacked synth army. </p><p> </p><p>Danse examined the lobby like a soldier would, a commander directing a sweep and retrieve. “They moved in together. Took out everything on this floor to secure the exit. Then they’d head up and sweep the building from the top down. Lancers waiting outside to pick off anything trying to flee.” He spotted a yellow paper tag affixed to a telephone on the reception desk. “Yes. They’ve finished and gone.” </p><p> </p><p>“For how long?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’ll take a full sweep team to clean out a building this size,” said Danse. “It could be days before they gather the numbers to come back. We’re safe.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank God.” Valentine looked slightly more at ease. “Let’s take the elevator.” </p><p> </p><p>On the 11th floor, the patrol had moved through each of the lettered studios and tagged everything valuable they could find. Whenever they arrived, the sweep-and-retrieve team proper would put in the real effort of determining what was worth keeping for archival or scrap, what was valuable, and what was too large to be removed. </p><p> </p><p>Studio C had also been picked through and tagged. Camera equipment, microphones, monitors, even the surgical devices on Lacey’s rolling cart. On the soundstage, a long, heavy canvas bag was zipped up and set on the floor. Bryce’s corpse.</p><p> </p><p>“What are they doing with him?” asked Valentine uneasily. </p><p> </p><p>“Standard procedure for recent remains on a sweep,” said Danse. “They’ll remove the body and respectfully dispose of it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really? Even a synth?” </p><p> </p><p>“He’s not tagged. They can’t tell he’s not human.” And no, the bitter, bitter irony was not lost on Danse.</p><p> </p><p>Up in the control room, there was indeed a functioning terminal locked with heavy security. Unlike Lacey had claimed, the password was not “exile.”</p><p> </p><p>“No sweat.” Valentine hoisted his battery onto the desk and sat at the keyboard. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll get us in.” </p><p> </p><p>“While you do that, I’m going to look for a synth with a functioning power core,” said Danse. </p><p> </p><p>Valentine raised an eyebrow. “How will you be able to tell?”</p><p> </p><p>“When an early-gen synth suffers critical damage, the power core automatically shuts off until the damage is repaired.” Danse felt a little strange explaining this to Valentine of all people. Not least because he wasn’t sure why he knew it at all. “If I find one with its torso intact, odds are good the core will be functioning, just inactive.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” Valentine apparently also realized how backwards this conversation was. “Well, here’s hoping.” </p><p> </p><p>It appeared the synths within the building had scattered across multiple floors in some attempt to protect it, leaving pockets of broken remains throughout. Heading down one floor, Danse found a small group of synths just outside the stairwell. One was missing its head, laser marks scorching the plastic neck, but the rest of its body seemed intact. Danse flipped it over and used his utility tool to take off the back panel. </p><p> </p><p>Inside the chest, nestled within the tangle of components behind the coolant pump was a small metal case with four thick wires protruding. The power core. He touched the blade of his screwdriver to the metal casing and felt energy thrumming inside. </p><p> </p><p>Mission accomplished. He removed the casing from its frame, carefully cut the wires with a few inches slack, then headed back upstairs. </p><p> </p><p>Back in the control room, Valentine had hacked through the security without much trouble. He leaned over the keyboard clicking on the keys to skim down a list of entries, but turned when Danse approached. “You find anything?” </p><p> </p><p>“Right here,” said Danse, holding up the power core. “What about you?” </p><p> </p><p>“A regular encyclopedia. Want to read?” He shifted the chair aside so Danse could also look at the terminal. </p><p> </p><p>Some of the entries resembled the writings they’d found at Prospect Hill, diatribes about “no place like home” and “they will take me back.” Another nearly replicated the entry that Valentine had guessed to be a recall code: “Delta 1 2 X.” An uneasy prickle went down the back of his neck, as though merely reading such a thing might work to reset his brain and incapacitate him. There was no indication who, if anyone, the code belonged to. </p><p> </p><p>The rest of the entries were labeled “Dr. L. Vaughn: Project Notes.” The furthest back was from two months ago. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>1/4/2288</b>
</p><p>The equipment on this building will prove far more useful for large-scale deployment of gen-1/2 drones. Prospect Hill laboratory will remain as a field base. Its location is more convenient for the transport of subjects, and I doubt I will be able to relocate the equipment intact.</p><p>Latest Bunker Hill ambush unsuccessful. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>1/19/2288</b>
</p><p>Ambush successful. Eliminated Railroad personnel and acquired H9-64/Subject G.</p><p>Subject moderately wounded in attack. Post-mind-wipe and memory implant, Subject calls itself “Bryce” and believes it is some manner of mercenary; injuries sustained attempting to “protect client” (Railroad personnel.) </p><p>Strangely, Subject believes I “rescued” it from synth drones. This provides a golden opportunity. I am in need of a “human” assistant as the project grows. Subject is grateful to me and its loyalty will be easy to manipulate.</p><p>I am curious if this new “holistic” approach will yield any results. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>1/24/2288</b>
</p><p>Ambush unsuccessful. </p><p>Subject G is agreeable to obey my every request. Unfortunately, its personality is unusually impulsive, quick-tempered and prone to violent outbursts. How sad, to see such a magnificent creation reduced to such vulgarity by a hack job.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>2/5/2288</b>
</p><p>Subject G has taken to calling me “angel.” Remarkable simulation of infatuation, particularly unexpected in such an unappealing personality implant.</p><p>Finished prototype Synthetic Mental Programmer. Tempting as it is to test it on G, I will wait until another subject is acquired. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>2/10/2288</b>
</p><p>Ambush unsuccessful. </p><p>G returned successfully with requested quantity of Twilight. It is at least street-smart enough to be suitable for this unsavory work. One small point in its favor. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>2/23/2288</b>
</p><p>Ambush unsuccessful. When will I get to test the SMP? </p><p>G initiated sexual contact. I permitted it on grounds of continuing “relationship.” </p><p>Disgusting.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>2/27/2288</b>
</p><p>Ambush successful. Eliminated 2 Railroad personnel and acquired L8-81/Subject H.</p><p>Transported subject to Prospect Hill laboratory. </p><p>Note to self: bring SMP testing notes from Prospect Hill. Do not send G. I need at least one place I can get away from him. </p><p>
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</p><p>“So Bryce was one of the missing Railroad packages,” muttered Valentine. “And a good old-fashioned patsy. She used him like a tissue.” </p><p> </p><p>“I won’t go so far as to say he deserved it. But it seems his new memory came with an extremely vicious personality.” Danse certainly hadn’t been impressed by the aggressive, violent man in their short encounters in Goodneighbor. “Should Dr. Amari be creating synths that way on purpose?”</p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t pin it on the Doc. Lacey caught him fresh off his mind-wipe, and could have been manipulating him into it,” Valentine reasoned. “Or, you know, maybe he was just a jerk. Plenty of humans are, too. They still don’t deserve to get stabbed in the back. Or chest, as it were.” </p><p> </p><p>“And L8-81…” Danse sighed. “The dead synth in the laboratory?” </p><p> </p><p>“I think so.” Valentine frowned grimly. “We’re getting closer.” </p><p>
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</p><p>
  <b>3/1/2288</b>
</p><p>SMP procedure on Subject H unsuccessful.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>3/5/2288 </b>
</p><p>Had another dream. A birthday party. Recent. </p><p>I wonder if it’s in the diary. </p><p>Perhaps I’ll send Subject G to fetch it. I don’t want to see that place ever again. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>3/10/2288</b>
</p><p>Bunker Hill ambush successful. Eliminated 2/3 Railroad personnel, acquired R6-48/Subject I. </p><p>Curiously, drones would not attack injured Railroad agent. I am in need of human subjects for next trials. Drones captured agent as well.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>3/12/2288</b>
</p><p>I never imagined I would have such luck. </p><p>The agent, Nora Carter, is Father’s mother. That’s why the drones can’t harm her. Some obscure command line I didn’t think to overwrite, fortunately. </p><p>This changes everything. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>3/14/2288</b>
</p><p>Relocated Subject I and NC to Cambridge. Will meet them there tomorrow and continue research there.</p><p>Note to self: look into networks to connect terminals This constant compilation of notes is exhausting. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>3/19/2288</b>
</p><p>Another dream. This one was real. I remember it so well, it has to be real. </p><p>I should have brought it here with me. No matter how sick it makes me to look at it. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>3/21/2288</b>
</p><p>Disregard Subject I. </p><p>Heading to Bunker Hill today. Must acquire medical supplies for NC and monitor condition. Bitch is more trouble than she’s worth, but too valuable to lose. </p><p> </p><p>ADDENDUM: Observed M7-97 at Bunker Hill. I could never forget that face. </p><p>Acquiring it would be ideal, and open completely new avenues.</p><p>
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</p><p>he final entry was dated the previous day, when they’d faced Lacey here at the studio. </p><p>
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</p><p>
  <b>3/23/2288 </b>
</p><p>Memory Den scouting unsuccessful. Lost drone within. If you want something done right, do it yourself.</p><p>Deployed G to intercept shipment, then off to retrieve diary. </p><p>Provided holotape with directions to Chestnut. </p><p>
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</p><p>There was so much to unpack, Danse didn’t know where to begin. He’d been hoping for a map. Specific locations. Something more than disconnected entries and the alarming indication that Nora required medical supplies. Needed to have her condition monitored. What did that monster do to her? Where could she possibly be, and how the hell were they supposed to find her when the only clue they had was as broad as “Cambridge?”</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me you see something I don’t, Valentine.” Danse tightened his fists until his fingernails dug into his palms. “Please, tell me there’s something here.” </p><p> </p><p>“There is. Calm down. Let me read it again.” Valentine’s eyes moving back and forth over the terminal screen as he skimmed. Danse resisted the urge to scream at him to hurry up. </p><p> </p><p>“There’s two new locations we don’t know about,” he said at last. “Cambridge, where according to this, she’s keeping Nora. And Chestnut, which seems to be the location of this diary.” </p><p> </p><p>“What does the diary matter?” </p><p> </p><p>It matters to her.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?” </p><p> </p><p>“Danse, you read the same thing I did. I don’t know,” Valentine said irritably. “The point is, she wants it. And I, for one, want to know what’s so important about a lousy diary.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care if she wrote her entire manifesto in it. It doesn’t lead us to Nora.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t ignore the clues you’re given because they’re not the ones you want.” Valentine stood up, hoisting his battery to move away from the terminal. “We held you over her head and got her to spill. What if the diary is our next collateral?”</p><p> </p><p>He exhaled. Valentine was right. They couldn’t afford to be picky about the information they found. And there was always a chance this diary could contain more than simple journal entries. It could point the way to “Cambridge,” or give them vital clues about Lacey. </p><p> </p><p>“Tonight, she sent Bryce to fetch the diary for her. Recorded directions to ‘Chestnut’ on a holotape for him. He was meant to head that way after the chem deal.” Valentine listed each step on his fingers. “Which we interrupted.”</p><p> </p><p>“So he never made it. Which means…” Danse’s head abruptly snapped towards the soundstage. “He should still be in possession of the holotape.”</p><p> </p><p>Valentine smiled. “Bingo.” </p><p> </p><p>Without another word, Danse rushed down to the soundstage. He knelt beside the body bag and took a deep breath, holding it in as he opened the zipper, then tucked the sides down to examine the dead synth’s body.</p><p> </p><p>Bryce’s jacket had been opened, likely given a cursory examination by the Brotherhood. The dozen or so stab wounds were clearly visible in his shirt, bloody holes across his chest and stomach. There was something off-putting about the manner of death. Guns killed from a distance, relatively clean and easily. Stabbing a man with a knife was close-up, intimate, brutal. Doing it a dozen times? It would take a frenzied state of mind to go to this level of overkill.</p><p> </p><p>There was nothing in the pockets of his jeans, nor in any of the pouches on the belt and holster. Then Danse touched something heavy in the jacket pocket. Something rectangular. Hard plastic. A holotape. Triumph soared through him as he plucked it out of the jacket-- </p><p> </p><p>And then it all came crashing down. The holotape was badly dented, the plastic mangled. Blood stained the casing on one side. The damage had no doubt incurred at the moment of death, the holotape taking multiple blows from the knife, then soaking in the victim’s blood. </p><p> </p><p>Their only clue had been destroyed before they ever found it.</p><p> </p><p>Danse returned to the control room at a somber clip, too stunned to even think straight. Valentine was fiddling with the radio equipment. He looked up when Danse appeared, raised an eyebrow. “What happened? Did you find it?” </p><p> </p><p>He set the mangled holotape down in front of him. </p><p> </p><p>“Yikes.” Valentine took the tape and examined it.  “What a mess.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s ruined.” Danse shook his head. “The recording media’s been damaged. The casing won’t even fit in a terminal like this.”  </p><p> </p><p>“Let me see.” Valentine studied the tape for a moment, then brought it up towards his face. His eyes shifted shape, dilating briefly, and there was some sort of mechanical noise from inside his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah… little distorted, but most of it’s here.” He set the tape down and smirked. “Chestnut Hillock Reservoir. A house a quarter mile north. Blue-painted fence. The diary’s in a dresser in the basement.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s jaw dropped. “You can read holotapes?” </p><p> </p><p>“Being a machine has its advantages, sometimes.” </p><p> </p><p>The feeling of utter relief that flooded him was indescribable. He swiped his fingers back through his hair, nearly doubling over as he sighed. “My God, Nick, I could hug you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Bet you’re glad you fixed me up now.” He was clearly teasing. </p><p> </p><p>“More than I can possibly express.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, swap out that power core for me and we’ll call it even.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse chuckled. “It would be my pleasure.” </p><p> </p><p>Chestnut Hillock Reservoir wasn’t terribly far, just a short distance west of Diamond City, a few hours’ walk along the river. They could be there by sunrise if they were fortunate enough to avoid trouble along the way. </p><p> </p><p>“Aha. There we are.” Valentine finished up whatever he was doing with the radio. “I figured while we’re here with a good broadcast signal, we ought to spread our reach a little wider.”</p><p> </p><p>“How so?” </p><p> </p><p>“You’ll see.” Valentine pushed a button, and the microphone crackled. “Nick to Valentine Detective Agency. This is Nick, to the Agency. Miss Perkins, you there? Over.” </p><p> </p><p>He set the message to repeat. A minute or so later, someone answered.</p><p> </p><p>A woman’s voice spoke, slurred and sleepy. “<em> Agency to Nick. Agency to Nick. Do you read me? Over </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine smiled and pushed the button again. “Good morning, Ellie. Sorry to wake you at this time of night.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “I’ve had much ruder awakenings than this. I was just starting to worry about you. Did you make it up north? </em>” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. It’s, ah… let’s just say it’s been a long couple of days.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Where are you? Are you all right? </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine. But you’re in for a real surprise next laundry day.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Well, that’s ominous. What happened? </em>” </p><p> </p><p>“Nevermind that for now. Listen, Ellie, I need you to do something for me. Grab a pencil and paper.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Got one right here. </em>” </p><p> </p><p>“I need you to radio the Minutemen. General Carter’s being kept somewhere in Cambridge. We need as many as can go and scout the area discreetly. Suspect’s jumpy and might try to move her if she gets suspicious, but we need eyes and ears on the ground in Cambridge.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Minutemen… to Cambridge. Discreetly </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“We’ll be there as soon as we can, hopefully with better information. Rendezvous at the Campus Diner.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Campus Diner. Got it. I’ll broadcast this to the Castle until I get a response </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, Ellie. See you real soon. Over and out.” </p><p> </p><p><em> “Be careful, Nick. Good luck. </em>” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine clicked off the radio. “There. Figured we could use more boots on the ground.”</p><p> </p><p>“Excellent idea.” Danse felt better at the prospect of heading in the opposite direction of Cambridge if there would be allies searching in their stead. “God willing, they’ll find her before we even arrive.” </p><p> </p><p>“Now, whaddya say we get this damn core swapped out, so I can quit lugging this thing around?” Valentine gestured to the battery. </p><p> </p><p>Danse nodded. “Come downstairs under the bright lights. I’ve got the tools in my pack.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Valentine lay face-down on the desk on the soundstage that wasn’t covered with blood. His eyes followed Danse’s preparations, and he let out a noise quite like a sigh. “Think this is gonna hurt?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse arranged his tools and the replacement power core on the desk beside him. “I could disable your pain sensors again, if you prefer.” </p><p> </p><p>“Again? Did you do it last time?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, of course.” </p><p> </p><p>“That was nice of you. Though I doubt I was in any shape to notice if you hadn’t.” </p><p> </p><p>“No. You certainly did.” He didn’t think Valentine would want to hear about the shouting and limbless thrashing in any significant detail. The most strenuous part of the whole affair was actually holding him still long enough to open his cranial plate and disconnect the tactile sensors. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” Valentine’s lips pressed together awkwardly. “Well. I’d, uh… prefer to keep my head closed up, if you don’t mind. I’ll grin and bear it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Understood.” Danse began removing the panel over his back. </p><p> </p><p>“Begs the question a little, though, Danse. How do you know where my pain sensors are, and how do you know how to switch them off?” </p><p> </p><p>“How do I know how to do any of this?” he muttered. “As I said, it came naturally.” </p><p> </p><p>As it did once more. Gently nudging components aside, he found the slightly scorched metal casing of Valentine’s broken power core. The wire he’d twisted together with the battery lead was anchored in place by a screw. It was a simple matter of attaching the other three wires to the new power core, then he could undo the fourth from the battery and attach it as well. Secure the casing inside, and Valentine would be good as new. </p><p> </p><p>The old synth gave a few quiet grunts even as Danse carefully manipulated his insides. “On a scale of one to power armor,” he said, “how difficult am I to work on?” </p><p> </p><p>“If power armor is ten, you’re a six.” </p><p> </p><p>“Only a six?” </p><p> </p><p>“If I calibrate something incorrectly, you don’t crush me to death or explode.” </p><p> </p><p>“I did plenty of exploding yesterday.” </p><p> </p><p>“That combustion was caused by the car. You didn’t contribute.” </p><p> </p><p>“So you’re saying I can’t explode on my own?” </p><p> </p><p>“Not unless I’m extremely wrong. But on that note,” Danse smirked slightly. “I’ve removed the dead power core and I’ll be hooking up the new one. You’re going to feel a surge, as the battery is still connected for the moment. I would appreciate it if you did not take this opportunity to prove me extremely wrong.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine chuckled. “I’ll try to resist.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse tuned out a few more uncomfortable noises of strain as he installed the three wires to the new core. “How’s that?” </p><p> </p><p>“My teeth are vibrating. So I’d say it’s working.”</p><p> </p><p>He detached the lead from the battery, then hooked it with the fourth and final wire on the power core. “And that?” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh...” Valentine sighed with relief. “That’s much better.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse secured the metal casing into position, pushed the other parts back into place around it, then replaced the plate on Valentine’s back. A few more screws, and he was set. “Done.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine sat up and shifted around, testing out some movement. His pupils dilated again and he stared into nothing, then blinked. “Diagnostic looks good. It’s perfect.” </p><p> </p><p>“Outstanding,” said Danse. </p><p> </p><p>It seemed very much, for a moment, like the old synth was going to tug him in for a friendly embrace. Instead they hovered there for a few eternal seconds, making eye contact, both clearly unsure of what to do. </p><p> </p><p>Danse nodded. So did Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>Then Valentine gave him precisely three pats on the shoulder, and they disengaged. “You’re a hell of a mechanic, Danse. Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome.” Danse had some difficulty suppressing a smile. He also had no desire to continue dwelling in this rather awkward moment, and was eager to change the subject as soon as possible. “Shall we depart for the reservoir?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Valentine pulled his coveralls up to slide his arms in. “Let’s get a move on before somebody comes back for all this tech and takes us with it.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It was folly to think of anywhere in the wasteland as “peaceful.” Letting one’s guard down anywhere in the open was a good way to end up in dire straits or dead, especially at night. But out of the tangled jungle of buildings and into the open hills and dried-up forests, there was at least the possibility of docility. Wild animals were still a threat, but less direct and seemingly omnipresent than raiders, super mutants, and whatever else stalked the abandoned buildings of Boston proper. </p><p> </p><p>They followed the Charles River along the southern bank, winding a short distance north around Diamond City and continuing west. They were close enough to the city to stop and stock up, if need be, but neither of them seemed willing to suggest it until after this mysterious business of the diary had been concluded. </p><p> </p><p>They reached the reservoir proper around 3 AM. Following the directions on the holotape, they wandered in search of a house that matched the description. A quarter mile north. A blue fence. </p><p> </p><p>Soon they stood before the remains of a small homestead. </p><p> </p><p>There were two types of ruins in the wasteland. Some had plainly been that way since the bombs dropped 200 years ago. Collapsing buildings buried in rubble, clearly uninhabited. Danse had seen hundreds of ruins like that in his life, not counting the hundreds more he’d “seen” in his childhood memories. They could be quite eerie, not to mention dangerous, but any found horrors were old enough to quietly file away with the general tragedy of war exemplified by the wasteland. </p><p> </p><p>The second type of ruins, like this homestead, were much worse. They had been occupied recently. Someone had put time and effort and love and care into making them into something new, something hopeful. And then, often without any indication of when or how,  those people had died. </p><p> </p><p>The house itself was prewar, but it had been admirably restored. Whitewashed wood, a picket fence with fading blue paint, a water pump, the remains of crops and a garden in a small plot. Someone had constructed a quaint porch swing out of scrap wood, chains creaking eerily in the wind. It was a nice piece of property, a seemingly pleasant spot for any settler. Yet it was completely abandoned. No lights, no life. Silence and stillness, an uneasy feeling of unknown dread. The ghost of something that happened here still haunted the place, and they filled the house so thoroughly, emanated so strongly within and without that no one dared intrude. </p><p> </p><p>“This place gives me the creeps,” said Valentine, with ever the talent for understatement. He set a hand on the worn fence. “I wonder whose house this was.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse glared at the structure. Every nerve and instinct in him was sounding alarm bells. “I don’t like this one bit.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine tilted his head back and forth and took a few steps closer. “I’m not detecting anybody or anything alive in there. No movement at all.” </p><p> </p><p>“Are you certain?”</p><p> </p><p>“Certain as I can be.” </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t replace your detection system, you know.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, don’t start with that. It’s fine.” Valentine gave him a side-eye. “I see a creepy old house. What do you see?”</p><p> </p><p>“An ambush waiting to happen. An isolated building. Too close to the road. Surrounded by trees. Easily spotted, but we can’t see anyone approaching until it’s too late.” Danse gestured at the landscape around the house. </p><p> </p><p>Valentine considered, nodding. “Do you want to stay out here? Keep an eye out while I search the house?” </p><p> </p><p>“I think that would be wise,” Danse drew his rifle and clicked off the safety. “I’ll sweep the perimeter and watch for interlopers.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sounds good. I’ll be as quick as I can.” </p><p> </p><p>“If anything happens in there, anything at all, yell and I’ll come running.”</p><p> </p><p>“Likewise.” Valentine drew his revolver and headed for the front door of the house. It was locked, but he quickly located a low broken window to slip through. He opened the door from the inside, waved at Danse to indicate he’d done so, then disappeared inside.</p><p> </p><p>Danse, meanwhile, began his patrol around the homestead. He quickly circled the perimeter, searching both the grounds and the surrounding area for any sign of threats. Raiders, scoping the location for a base. A poorly-timed yao guai. More synths, lurking in the woods.</p><p> </p><p>There was nothing to be found. The homestead seemed secure. </p><p> </p><p>The back door of the house had been boarded shut and was inaccessible, so Danse parked himself near the front door to stand watch. It was slightly tempting to head inside and assist Valentine, but his soldier’s instincts told him it was unwise to leave the only egress unguarded. Anyone could descend on the house in a matter of minutes, and it would be too easy for someone to block the door and siege them inside. After their misadventures with the army of synths, Danse was not eager to repeat the experience on a smaller scale. </p><p> </p><p>It was around five minutes later he heard the footsteps. The crackling and crunching of underbrush. A human-sized someone or something moving behind the house. </p><p> </p><p>Laser at the ready, Danse crept towards the corner. The footsteps followed along the wall, heading right for him. Someone coming for the front door. </p><p> </p><p>He steeled his nerves and rushed out from around the corner, pointing his rifle. “Freeze!” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey stood six feet in front of him, a pistol in her hands. Her big blue eyes blinked with surprise and her lips moved silently around shocked syllables.</p><p> </p><p>They stood in an uneasy standoff for roughly ten seconds before she spoke. “It’s you. M7. You’re alive.”</p><p> </p><p>“No thanks to your siren and your damn synths,” snapped Danse. “Put your hands up.” </p><p> </p><p>“I saw you lying in the street. I thought you’d been killed. But if you’re alive...” </p><p> </p><p>“I said put your hands up, Vaughn.” </p><p> </p><p>She did no such thing. Instead, she smiled. Tears welled in her eyes. Her hands began to shake around the grip of her pistol. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “<em> Danse </em>. That’s what you’re calling yourself now, isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>There was something strange about her behavior this time. Her expression. Her voice. Cold cruelty replaced with something almost like tenderness. </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s talk.” She took a hand off her pistol, holding it up in a mollifying gesture. “I only want to talk.” </p><p> </p><p>“Last time we talked, you tried to shoot me.” Danse gestured with his rifle. “Drop the gun and put your hands up. It’s over.” </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s talk, Danse,” Lacey insisted. “Let me tell you who you are.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I think there's a very good reason why Danse says he hails from Rivet City and not from some other random place in the Capital Wasteland. And that reason is that Rivet City is the setting of "The Replicated Man" in FO3, the quest that introduces the Institute and the very concept of synths to the series. I posit this was intentionally a hint at the truth about Danse's origins-- he was a Railroad rescue who had his memories done by Dr. Pinkerton in Rivet City. </p><p>Now the REST of his origin story featured in this story is totally my own headcanon, but I will confidently argue about the Rivet City portion. There's circumstantial evidence. I will die on this hill. Fight me. etc. etc. </p><p>Starting next chapter I think the POVs will be swapping more frequently as events demand, but I hope this will be easy to differentiate because Danse's POV feels like writing a lecture. Always. </p><p>NEXT CHAPTER: A haunted house, boots on the ground, and a risky plan.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Ghost Of Yesterday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A haunted house, boots on the ground, a dangerous plan, and a frightened new face.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The worst thing about the house was how normal it looked. </p><p> </p><p>Nick had seen his share of wasteland ruins in his many, many years. More often than not there was some horrid secret inside. Landmarks and businesses transformed into abattoirs by super mutants or raiders. Homes and settlements plastered with evidence of their residents’ brutal deaths. Even ruins empty since the bombs dropped told stories of prewar atrocities, sickening accounts of just how direly capitalism could run amok.</p><p> </p><p>But the Chestnut homestead was something close to pristine. Normal furnishings, normal objects, largely undisturbed. Super mutants would have wrecked the place. Raiders would have stripped it clean. Nobody had even bothered scavenging in here. The house looked for all the world like it was holding its breath for its owners’ return. The thick layer of dust over everything suggested it had been waiting a long, long time. </p><p> </p><p>Nick moved slowly into the living room, keeping his sensors on high alert. He understood Danse’s concerns about ending up trapped or ambushed, but whatever dangers might threaten them weren’t coming from inside the house. His detection system found no trace of life, no movement. Not even a radroach or rat slinking within the walls. </p><p> </p><p>There was nothing here but memories and ghosts. </p><p> </p><p>The living room contained a stained and ratty couch, a coffee table, and a brick fireplace. Bookshelves held a small collection of wasteland literature, some salvaged prewar books, some “published” by enterprising wastelanders. There was quite a lot of blank paper too, collected from various sources, set in a neat pile near a stack of scavenged pencils, charcoals, and crinkled tubes of paint.</p><p> </p><p>Soot filled the fireplace, blackened and charred bits of wood and paper burned long ago and never disposed of. Something pale stuck out of the ashes. Nick plucked out the remnants of a burnt piece of paper. A pencil drawing of a woman’s face-- or the lower left corner of it, anyway. A graceful neck, smiling lips, a few curly waves of hair. Someone had been a decent artist. </p><p> </p><p>The tinderbox still held a whole stack of newspapers and scraps. There was no need to resort to burning a drawing unless someone had done so deliberately. </p><p> </p><p>There were no other identifiable papers in the fireplace, but raking his fingers through the ashes, Nick tugged out a few small scraps of fiber. Charred hemp, twisted together. Pieces of rope? Odd choice for kindling.</p><p> </p><p>Beyond the living room, a hallway led to the other rooms on the main floor. A small kitchen. Salvaged curtains made of burlap, painted with cute designs. A little table with one chair and a stained tablecloth. The faint stench of food rotting in the pantry. It looked all the world like it was a quick tidy-up away from someone serving breakfast again. </p><p> </p><p>A bedroom. Double bed. The blankets were halfway dragged off the mattress, as though there had been a struggle the last time someone slept there. Two people, from the looks of the pillows. A man and a woman, if the clothing in the wardrobe was any indication. </p><p> </p><p>A locked door stood at the end of the hallway. Nick rapped his knuckles on it. Sounded like a stairwell on the other side, down into the basement. He reached for his coat pocket before remembering it didn’t exist anymore. Fortunately, a quick search through the bedroom found him a few bobby pins, and he knelt by the door to work on picking the lock. It took a few minutes before the tumblers gave way with a click.</p><p> </p><p>It was not technically possible for Nick to get the willies, but the basement gave him a fairly good approximation of them. It was a dark and unfinished space, rotted drywall, bare earth floors, shelves lining the walls holding shriveled tatos, carrots, turnips, and other vegetables. A root cellar? The dirt floor was loose, previously disturbed. Maybe they were trying to grow something down here, too. </p><p> </p><p>Against the far wall was a lone chair that matched the one in the kitchen. Beside it, a dresser. Starting from the top, Nick searched drawer by drawer. Seed packets, gardening tools, old clothes, rolls of burlap... and a leather-bound book, blank pages covered with neat handwriting. The diary. </p><p> </p><p>Mission accomplished, as Danse would say. What secrets were hidden in these pages? Plans? Theories? A manifesto, even?</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, Nick was a little let down when he opened to the first page.</p><p> </p><p><b>5/23/2283</b> <br/>I don’t want to ruin this beautiful book with my silly thoughts, but I don’t want to waste all Jacob’s efforts, either. So I suppose I will just start writing and get it over with!</p><p>There! Now it’s properly broken-in. </p><p>(a drawing of a smiley face.) </p><p> </p><p>It was just a diary. A perfectly normal, ordinary diary, the thoughts and musings of a perfectly normal, ordinary young woman. Nick began flipping through random entries when it became apparent none of them were exactly bombshells of case-breaking information. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>8/15/2283</b>
</p><p>Jacob’s birthday is coming up. What shall I get him?</p><ul>
<li>New clothes?</li>
<li>A new shovel and rake</li>
<li>Wine? He likes the kind they make at Greentop </li>
<li>None of the above, because I know you’re reading this, Jake! (drawing of a face sticking its tongue out) </li>
</ul><p> </p><p>
  <b>10/13/2283</b>
</p><p>I can’t believe we’ve been married a whole year now. It seems like only yesterday Jacob proposed. The wasteland can be such a cold, cruel place, and I never imagined I would find a man like him. </p><p>I know you’re reading this, Jake. I love you so much. (drawing of a face winking, with a heart) </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>1/1/2284</b>
</p><p>Happy New Year! </p><p>Marilyn should be giving birth soon. Twins! I don’t know the first thing about calving brahmin, but Jacob found a book about it last time he was in town. I’ve got some studying to do. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>3/29/2284</b>
</p><p>HI DARLIN</p><p>(a well-done drawing of a brahmin standing with a pair of calves, signed with a “J” in a heart.) </p><p>HAPY BIRTHDAY</p><p>LUV JAKE </p><p> </p><p>The vast majority of the entries followed a similar pattern. A young couple, making their way together on this little homestead, growing crops, raising brahmin, trading in the city. There were downs: sickness, failed crops, bad storms, trouble conceiving a child. There were ups: good harvests, pleasant discoveries, birthdays and holidays and happy times. Nick found himself nostalgic, wistful for memories that weren’t even his. </p><p> </p><p>Why would Lacey want this diary? Was she the young woman who authored it? Nick had just begun to doubt it was relevant at all when he stumbled on a slightly more mysterious entry. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>12/6/2286</b>
</p><p>Another dream. The white room and the voices, talking about me. Woke up sobbing, with Jacob’s arms around me. He said I was screaming in my sleep.</p><p>I wish these nightmares would stop. I feel shaky and ill the whole next day every time I have one. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>1/18/2287</b>
</p><p>The dream again. </p><p>Jacob says not to worry. That dreams can be very persistent but are just the brain working off stray thoughts. It doesn’t mean anything. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>3/9/2287</b>
</p><p>If he tells me it’s just a dream again, I’m going to scream. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>3/29/2287</b>
</p><p>He was staring at me this morning. Standing in the corner watching me sleep. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>4/3/2287</b>
</p><p>They say they don’t eat or sleep. That they can stay up all night. It’s obviously not true. I’ve lived with him for years. We eat every day. He sleeps every night. I’m overthinking this. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>4/16/2287</b>
</p><p>Woke up 5:45 AM<br/>Went outside to tend chickens and brahmin </p><p>Came inside, prepared breakfast, left portion on counter for me </p><p>Fieldwork: 9 AM-2:30 PM</p><p>Came inside, slept on the couch. Observed him breathing and eyes moving. Did not wake at stimulus.</p><p>Dinner, 6:29 PM. Ate entire portion. </p><p>Sat down to sketch in living room. Drew 4 sketches. </p><p>Went to bed 8:53 PM. Observed him breathing and eyes moving. Did not wake at stimulus. </p><p> </p><p>The last entry on the last page was marred with a rusty-colored stain, smudges of fingerprints. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>4/28/2287</b>
</p><p>He’s onto me. </p><p> </p><p>   </p><p>Nick glanced at the lone chair against the basement wall. On a hunch, he tipped it forward, examining the surface. It was hard to make out, faded after a long time, but there were dark stains soaked into the wood.</p><p> </p><p>A sinister chill seemed to fill the house. Suddenly, the disturbed earth in the floor seemed a lot more ominous. </p><p> </p><p>Nick knelt and carefully pushed away wide swipes of dirt, sifting through the floor. He couldn’t take too much time down here, didn’t want to keep Danse waiting, but he had to know. </p><p> </p><p>It took only a few minutes to find the body. </p><p> </p><p>He was dried-out and decayed, his face far beyond identifiable. Naked, at least from the waist-up (clothes wouldn’t have rotted away so quickly.) The manner of death was indiscernible, though Nick grit his teeth when he found the back of the skull missing. Cut away, not cracked or caved-in. No tissue within. His brain had been removed. </p><p> </p><p>The lines of definition were vague, but Nick was painting a mental image. A happy young couple. Strange occurrences, odd dreams. The wife starts to wonder if her husband is the man he’s supposed to be. Suspicions grow. Paranoia. Mistrust. A terrible tale, a story that played out far too often in the Commonwealth. </p><p> </p><p>But this story ended more gristly than most. She catches him off-guard, asleep in bed. Ties him up in the basement. And… </p><p> </p><p>What did she do to him? How long did he live? Was he already dead when she opened his skull? When she dug out his brain, what did she find? Was he a synth? Or had she made a grave mistake? </p><p> </p><p>Nick was unsure if there was anything else to be found on Jacob’s body, or if it was worth the effort to finish digging it up. At the very least he wanted to go check on Danse, let him know what he’d found and perhaps get his opinions on it. For the moment, he brushed the earth back over the dead man, muttering a soft wish that he rest in peace. </p><p> </p><p>He tucked the diary into the pocket of his hideous coveralls and headed back upstairs. </p><p> </p><p>As he reached the main floor, he heard a shout. Danse’s voice from the east side of the house. Had he caught someone sneaking up? Nick walked towards the shattered windows to peek out, and was startled to hear a familiar voice. </p><p> </p><p>“What’s the harm in talking? It’s just the two of us here. Unless your little friend is inside, ready to ambush me?” </p><p> </p><p>“No. He’s gone.” Sharp gravitas lined Danse’s voice, turning the statement into a convincing lie. “Destroyed with the rest of the synths at the studio.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m so sorry. It was oddly charming, for a gen-2.” Speaking of lies, Lacey was putting on one hell of a performance, soft and demure and gentle as could be. The sympathy nearly sounded genuine. </p><p> </p><p>“You’d have done worse to him.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well. I suppose I deserve that.” She pursed her lips together. “Was it true, what it said? You were a Paladin?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p> </p><p>“Brotherhood of Steel?” </p><p> </p><p>“What about it?” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey chuckled softly. “I’m not surprised, really. It suits you.” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” Danse shot back. “I had my mind wiped. Whatever M7-97 was like, I’m not him anymore.” </p><p> </p><p>“Broadly, no. You’re not. But machines do have quirks.”</p><p> </p><p>“What is that supposed to mean?” </p><p> </p><p>“Individual machines tend to malfunction in particular ways.” Lacey took a step closer. Her pistol was fully lowered by her side, her other hand raised diplomatically. “Synths are no different. Even after mind-wipes, there are odd little echoes that seem to carry over. Glitches. Quirks.”</p><p> </p><p>“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘personality.’”</p><p> </p><p>“Quirks,” she corrected sternly. “For instance, a preference for precision. Comfort in routine, structure, a chain of command. A predilection for taking orders. Things you found again outside the Institute, things the Brotherhood could offer you.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick slowly moved where he could see Danse out the window. His eyes were narrowed into vicious slits, his teeth grit angrily, and his rifle trained square on Lacey. </p><p> </p><p>“But I think, Danse, what appealed to you most may have been the call of battle. The thrill of bloodshed and violence. Routing out the enemy and striking them down.” </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t know me. You don’t know what it was to me. And don’t you dare assume you do.”</p><p> </p><p>“I do. Because it was the same sort of thing you excelled at as a Courser.” </p><p> </p><p>The word seemed to hit Danse like a punch. His eyes went reflexively wide and his jaw dropped. “I was a…” </p><p> </p><p>“A Courser, yes” said Lacey. “You worked for me personally in the Synth Retention Bureau. One of my best. You took pride and pleasure in it, found sport in hunting down synths. Pursuing and subduing your prey. I can’t begin to remember how many runners you brought back. But that’s why we built you, what we programmed you to do. However...” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey’s gaze turned fond, a little wistful. “You always felt like something more than a mere tool. As though there was a real person within you, a soul. I was the only one who ever saw it in you. It was unorthodox for a scientist to call a synth a ‘friend,’ but you and I...”</p><p> </p><p>She tucked her pistol away in the pocket of her raincoat. With her hands raised, she took a step closer. “We were very close, Danse. We had something very special.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse didn’t move or react as she stepped within arm’s length of him. Nick reached for his revolver. If she raised her hand to him, brought up a needle with drugs, or did anything that looked like she was going to hurt him, he’d shoot her through the window. </p><p> </p><p>“You were always happy with your purpose. I don’t know what kind of malfunction occurred to change your mind, what made you think you wanted to run away, but the day you did I was… devastated. I feared the wasteland would claim you, the way it’s claimed so many others. I was so frightened for you, but I knew… there was nothing I could do. I knew I’d never see you again.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse still showed no reaction. His eyes were steely, distant, lifeless. “When?” </p><p> </p><p>“When you ran? Fifteen, sixteen years ago, at least,” she said. “So you can imagine my shock when I saw you. Alive and well in the Commonwealth after all this time. I was so happy to find you again. Now we can go back to what we were before. The way we’re supposed to be.”</p><p> </p><p>A long moment passed. Then Danse seemed to come out of whatever fog he’d fallen into. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>“Because you’re a liar.” </p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t lie about this.” </p><p> </p><p>“Then prove it.” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey sighed. “It was years ago. How do you expect me to prove it?” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s your problem to solve.” He glared at her. “You're a monster and I won’t accept anything you say at face value.” </p><p> </p><p>“M7… Danse. Whoever you’d prefer to be.” Lacey reached up to clasp his shoulders. “Look at me.” </p><p> </p><p>He flinched and staggered back. “Don’t touch me!”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not your enemy.” </p><p> </p><p>“Stay away from me!”</p><p> </p><p>“Listen to me, Danse.” Lacey didn’t approach him again, but her voice was vehement, pleading. “Whatever I’ve done, whoever I’ve hurt, it was all in service to a greater goal. I’m trying to fix things. I’m trying to help synths who’ve lost their way. I want to help <em> you </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“None of us asked for your <em> help </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because you don’t understand what I can give you. All the struggle. All the sorrow. All the pain you’ve been through-- I can take it away. I can give you back your purpose. I can make you who you were meant to be. But I need your help.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse forced a breath in and out, very slowly. “Why?” </p><p> </p><p>“Because you’re special to me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Stop talking in riddles. Tell me why you need me. Now.” </p><p> </p><p>“Because there’s something in your memories that could help me. Something you and I worked on together.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t remember.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Bullshit </em>. Stop lying!” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not lying! I can’t <em> remember </em>exactly what it is, but I know it’s in your head somewhere.” </p><p> </p><p>“For the last time, I’m not that synth anymore. I had my mind wiped. Whatever you think I know, it’s gone now.” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t you understand?” Lacey sounded like she was biting down on rising frustration. “Everything I’ve been working on, everything I’ve built-- that doesn’t matter anymore. It’s still buried in your brain, and I have the capability to <em> find it </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“By killing me?”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” she insisted. “I told you, I don’t want to hurt you. It won’t be like that this time. I’m ready to do this for real. And if you let me try, I’ll give you anything you ask. Anything within my power to give. New memories, a new identity, anything you want.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse glowered at her, even darker than before. “All I want from you is Nora.”</p><p> </p><p>“Nora.” Lacey’s expression twisted into a sneer. “Nora, Nora, Nora. Is she really so important to you?” </p><p> </p><p>“Where the hell is she, Vaughn?” </p><p> </p><p>“If you agree to help me, I’ll let her go.” </p><p> </p><p>“No. Until you show me she’s safe and set her free, I’m not agreeing to a damn thing.” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey pressed her lips together with contempt. Her brow wrinkled slightly in thought, then she let out a sigh. “Do you know where the Cambridge Campus Law Offices are?” </p><p> </p><p>“Is that where she is?” </p><p> </p><p>“No. But I will meet you there, tomorrow at midnight.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s shoulders tensed, fury spreading across his features. “I’m not playing another of your stupid games, Lacey.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not a game. Come to the campus law office tomorrow at midnight. Alone. I’ll bring you to her. You can personally see to her safety. I promise.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why can’t we go now?” </p><p> </p><p>“Because I’m still the one holding the cards,” said Lacey. </p><p> </p><p>“And how do I know you’re not going to go back on your word?” </p><p> </p><p>She smiled, sweet and adoring. “I’m afraid, my darling, you’ll simply have to trust me.”</p><p> </p><p>He glared stonily at her for a few seconds. Then his eyebrows lifted, some realization dawning on him. “No.”</p><p> </p><p>“No?”</p><p> </p><p>“No. You’ll do exactly as you promised. You’ll meet me tomorrow and bring me to Nora. Or you’ll never see your diary again.” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey’s eyes went wider than plates. “How did you--” </p><p> </p><p>“Why do you think I’m here in the first place?” An edge of confident arrogance rose in his voice. “I found it in a dresser in the basement.” </p><p> </p><p>It was a stroke of genius. Danse, the painfully honest bastard, took what he knew and was actually pulling off deception. Two convincing lies in the same conversation. Would wonders never cease?</p><p> </p><p>And it was having a hell of an impact on Lacey. Her gentle demeanor melted away like a chalk painting in a downpour. Her smile became a vicious snarl and her voice was steely. “Did you read it? Where is it?” </p><p> </p><p>“Tomorrow at midnight.” Danse smirked. “You can have it back then.”</p><p> </p><p>“Show it to me! I want to see it!” </p><p> </p><p>“Then tomorrow at midnight, you’ll bring me to Nora.” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey was fuming, the expression of someone unused to a loose end in their carefully-crafted plan. At last, she reached a boiling point and burst out with a sharp “Fine. <em> Fine </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“If you go back on your word, then I’ll see to it personally that you lose everything in my head.” Danse gestured towards himself with his rifle. </p><p> </p><p>“And if you go back on yours,” Lacey said icily, “then my synths will bring you <em> hers </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s lip curled with disgust. Rage erupted in his eyes, and he looked like he dearly wanted to shoot her here and now. “Very well,” he said curtly. “It’s a deal.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tomorrow at midnight.” Hate painted Lacey’s features as she backed away slowly. “If anyone follows you, if I catch you following me from here, she dies.” Then she moved around him, heading for the front door of the house. </p><p> </p><p>Nick hit the deck, dropping to the floor and scrambling to hide behind the couch. If he had breath he would have held it as Lacey’s footsteps headed back into the hallway. She didn’t so much as glance his way. The second he heard her going down the stairs, he leapt to his feet and hurried out the door. </p><p> </p><p>Outside, Danse stood in the same spot, looking distraught. When he saw Nick his expression lifted instantly and his shoulders sagged with visible relief. Nick held up the diary triumphantly, and silently motioned for Danse to follow him. </p><p> </p><p>They bolted away from the homestead as fast as they could, heading north into the trees. They didn’t stop until they were nearly a mile away from the house, far out of sight and out of reach. </p><p> </p><p>“Way to go, Danse,” said Nick. “That was some excellent lying.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not lying. Acting,” Danse replied in a dead sort of voice. His face was solemn and worried, brows knit together, scowl sharp and intense. </p><p> </p><p>“Either way, I couldn’t be prouder.” </p><p> </p><p>“You shouldn’t be. It seems I learned from a master.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse stewed for a moment, then after some deliberation looked at Nick with clear distress in his eyes. “How much did you overhear?” </p><p> </p><p>Nick shook his head. “All of it.” </p><p> </p><p>They walked on for five more minutes before anyone spoke. It seemed neither of them knew where to begin with Lacey’s apparent revelations, so instead Nick changed the subject. He told Danse about the basement, the diary, and the bloody history of the Chestnut house. Evidence of a tragedy, of a man murdered for what he was. Or at least what someone else believed he was. </p><p> </p><p>“If Lacey’s not the author of this diary, she sure seems to care about the contents,” Nick reasoned out loud. “Simplest explanation is that it's her. Jacob was her husband, and she killed him thinking he was a synth.” It was the simplest explanation, but hardly a good one. “But how the hell does an Institute scientist end up a farmer’s wife in the wasteland?”</p><p> </p><p>Danse flipped through the diary himself, skimming over the entries. “Do you suppose she’s lying about being from the Institute?” </p><p> </p><p>“No. I don’t think so,” said Nick. “She’s too damn smart to have made that up. She may be clumsy, doing it alone out here, but she’s got the technical expertise. She had to have learned it somewhere.” </p><p> </p><p>“The entries began over five years ago. If she was exiled, it had to be before then.” Danse closed the diary with a frustrated thump. “Yet she makes no mention of the Institute at all. No mention of her work, or synths, or anything else.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s as though…” Nick slowed his steps. “That diary was written by a completely different person.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse frowned grimly, as though daring Nick to say what they were both thinking. </p><p> </p><p>“Maybe she’s a synth too?” asked Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“Why the hell not?” Danse grumbled. “Everybody else seems to be.” </p><p> </p><p>But if she was a synth, that threw even more questions into the mix. None of this was adding up. Who, exactly, was Lacey Vaughn? Was she an exiled Institute scientist and synth expert? An ordinary wasteland farmer? Or a machine who believed she was human, taught to hate and hunt her own kind? </p><p> </p><p>    “So she’s either a manipulative monster, or delusional, or both,” Danse said irritably. “How can we know what to believe about her? How can we know anything she says is true? Is Nora even alive? Was she lying about me? Or was she telling the truth? That I was…” </p><p> </p><p>He drifted off, looking at Nick as though afraid of his reaction. “Was I a Courser? Were she and I… close, somehow?” </p><p> </p><p>“I know better than to tell you it doesn’t matter. Because it does.” Nick folded his arms. “The question, though, is what it means to you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” said Danse. “But it… I have to admit, it would… explain some things.” </p><p> </p><p>“That doesn’t mean it’s true.” Nick gave him a sympathetic glance. “And it doesn’t mean you owe her anything. If it’s true, or if it isn’t-- what are you going to do about it?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse didn’t reply. He said nothing for a long, long time. Only walked along silently, staring off into the distance as though he might find the truth somewhere out there. </p><p> </p><p>“Danse,” said Nick at last. “You’re not really thinking of doing what she wants, are you?” </p><p> </p><p>It still took him some time to answer. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not a tool,” he said at last. “Not hers. Not the Institute’s. Not anyone’s. Never again.” </p><p> </p><p>That didn’t precisely answer Nick’s question. But he suspected Danse didn’t know the answer himself, at the moment. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They arrived in Cambridge shortly after sunup. After their arrival six months ago, the Brotherhood of Steel had largely secured the ghoul-ridden streets of the former college campus and surrounding neighborhoods. Which meant, of course, that Nick now avoided the area like the plague. Strolling Cambridge was currently more dangerous than usual, what with the exiled Brotherhood “traitor” by his side. The absolute last thing they needed was another hail of bullets in their direction, so their trip became a harrowing game of hide and seek, ducking through alleys and sneaking carefully along streets only when they were certain they wouldn’t be seen.</p><p> </p><p>Danse seemed to have put the matter of his potential Courserhood behind him for the time being. Which, of course, actually meant he’d shoved it underneath his usual stoic all-business demeanor to be dealt with at another time, or possibly never. “Quite bold of Lacey to keep an outpost in the middle of Brotherhood territory,” he muttered as they stopped in an alley.</p><p> </p><p>“Pretty smart, too,” said Nick. “The Institute isn’t going to poke around in the Brotherhood’s shadow. In that sense, she’s safer in Cambridge than damn near anywhere else.” </p><p> </p><p>The campus diner was about four blocks away. It had been about eight hours since Nick radioed for help, and with any luck some of the Minutemen would be around shortly. </p><p> </p><p>Danse had explained that the Brotherhood wouldn’t mind Minutemen presence in the area, so long as they stayed clear of the police station. Most of the Brotherhood had a mildly patronizing view of the militia, viewing them as incompetent upstarts, a charming local attempt at law and order. Hardly any considered them a force to be reckoned with, much less a direct threat. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know about that,” said Nick. “A group of rowdy armed locals can start a hell of a lot of trouble. Especially if there’s booze involved.”</p><p> </p><p>“Drinking on duty.” Danse sighed with intense disapproval. “And the Minutemen wonder why they have such trouble with organization and discipline.” </p><p> </p><p>They were about to exit an alley to cross the street when Danse abruptly froze. Nick bumped into him, startled.</p><p> </p><p>“Footsteps on the street,” Danse whispered. “Coming this way.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick strained to listen. Yes, there it was… four sets of footsteps heading their direction. Sounded like boots and not power armor, which was a good thing. Probably?</p><p> </p><p>“Hold it!” A man jumped into the alley from the street. He was pale and blond, wearing the duster of the Minutemen, and aiming a laser musket directly at them. </p><p> </p><p>Nick and Danse put their hands up instantly. “Whoa, hold on there!” Nick burst out. “We’re not-” </p><p> </p><p>“Get down!”</p><p> </p><p>Danse grabbed Nick by the shoulder and dropped, pulling them both to the street. With a burst of heat and a flash of light, the Minuteman’s musket went off over their heads, striking something in the alley behind them. Two more droning musket blasts went off. Something mechanical beeped, and plastic clattered to the ground. </p><p> </p><p>Nick sat up enough to look over his shoulder. A gen-2 synth lay on the ground, shooting sparks, and two more armed Minutemen stood over it. It must have snuck up on them in the alley as the three Minutemen were tracking it. “Damn. Great shooting-” </p><p> </p><p>“Hands up please,” said the blond, gesturing with his musket. “Stand up nice and slow, and back against the wall.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” said Nick, “we’re not-” </p><p> </p><p>“Hands up!” </p><p> </p><p>God damn it. They thought he was a synth. A regular synth, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>Danse also recognized the problem, but only attempted to intervene after backing against the wall as he was told. “He’s not a danger, soldier, and neither am I. This is Nick Valentine. We’re the ones who called you.” </p><p> </p><p>The blond man rolled his shoulder, but didn’t lower his gun. He gestured at Nick with a bob of his head. “Say something.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good morning,” said Nick in a put-upon pleasant tone. “Nice day for a walk in Cambridge. Please don’t shoot me.” </p><p> </p><p>One of the other two Minutemen was a woman, with her hair concealed beneath a blue bandana under her hat. She took a few steps closer, gave Nick a once-over, and smiled. “Mister Valentine?” </p><p> </p><p>There was something faintly familiar about her. “Yes?”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s him.” She nodded. “It’s all right, Elliot.” </p><p> </p><p>The blond Minuteman let out a sigh of relief. “At ease. Sorry about that.”</p><p> </p><p>“No harm done. Thanks for the save,” said Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome. Name’s Elliot, Commonwealth Minutemen. She’s Cole, and he’s Adway.” </p><p> </p><p>The third Minuteman Adway had long, unkempt black hair and a scar on his cheek. He was leaning down over the fallen synth, prodding around at it. “Just like the one that got the drop on Wilhelm.” </p><p> </p><p>“You folks having trouble with synths in the neighborhood?” asked Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“Early this morning, had a man injured by a few strays,” said Elliot. “We’ve been patrolling in small groups, keeping an eye out. Spotted this guy a few blocks away from here.” </p><p> </p><p>“How many have been sighted?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“Not sure. We’ve only been out about two hours,” said Cole. </p><p> </p><p>“Lieutenant Garvey’s at the diner. He can fill you in on the situation,” said Elliot. “We’ll even give you an escort over there.” </p><p> </p><p>“One moment.” Danse stepped over to the synth. He tilted its head to the side and drew out his multitool to open up its cranial plates. He pried out a piece of hardware, then held it up to show Nick. A receiver chip. One of Lacey’s remaining hijacked gen-2s.</p><p> </p><p>Nick took the chip from Danse and tucked it into the pocket of his coveralls. “All right. Lead the way, Minutemen.” </p><p> </p><p>The escort did not completely mitigate the risk they’d get shot on their way through Cambridge, but it certainly did help. With the three soldiers flanking them, they were able to stop sneaking and head straight over to the diner. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you the only Minutemen who answered the call?” asked Danse as they walked. </p><p> </p><p>“Hell no,” said Adway. “There’s about fifteen of us. Couple more might’ve trickled in while we were out.” </p><p> </p><p>“No sign of the general, yet,” said Elliot. “But as soon as someone finds her, we can all be there to storm the place in less than ten minutes.” </p><p> </p><p>The campus diner looked empty from the outside, but Cole led them to the rear kitchen door and knocked with a peculiar pattern. Another Minuteman let them inside. </p><p> </p><p>There were roughly half a dozen militia members camped throughout the building, talking quietly, resting, or waiting. In the dining area proper, a small group crowded around a crudely-drawn map of Cambridge spread across a table. Mismatched objects like buttons and stones and chess pieces represented the patrols, and another familiar face was pushing them around. </p><p> </p><p>“Another sighting up north.” Preston Garvey stood upright and let out a heavy sigh. “It’s gotta be somewhere over there.” </p><p> </p><p>“Should we send in another group?” asked one of the soldiers at the table. He had a familiar voice as well. </p><p> </p><p>“No. No telling if those synths can tattle on us or not. The last thing we want is them figuring out we’re here.” Garvey pointed to an area to the east. “Lopez, you and Rawlins head over here, see if you spot any more. Stick to this street here. No fighting unless you have to.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes sir.” The Minuteman saluted, and he and another went to leave. Then he stopped, blinked, and cracked a big smile. “Oh, hey Mister Valentine!” </p><p> </p><p>“Jeremy,” said Nick warmly. “Good to see you again.” </p><p> </p><p>“You too!” The young Minuteman from County Crossing looked thrilled to be recognized. “That a new outfit?” </p><p> </p><p>“God. Don’t ask.” </p><p> </p><p>“All right, I won’t. We’re off to find the general.” Jeremy waved as he turned to leave. “We’ll catch up later.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good luck. Be safe,” said Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“Good to see you, Nick.” Preston also greeted Nick with a smile. He offered a slightly more awkward smile to Danse, along with a slow nod. “And you too, ah…” </p><p> </p><p>Nick was certain Preston and Danse had met before. But this was the first time they’d met since Danse’s exile and the subsequent loss of “Paladin” as his title. For a firmly polite awkward fellow like Preston, this was a worst case scenario. </p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, fellow firmly polite awkward fellow Danse understood the struggle. “Danse is fine, Pleasure to see you again, Lieutenant Garvey.” </p><p> </p><p>“Garvey’s fine,” said Preston, looking immensely grateful for the clarification. “I didn’t realize you were working with Nick.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m as surprised as anyone,” said Danse. He seemed to be trying to make a joke, though his tone came out a little ambiguous. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s been with me the whole way through,” Nick added. “We make a pretty good team, actually.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, the more the merrier,” said Preston. “You guys want to catch me up on what’s going on?” </p><p> </p><p>“Pull up a couple chairs,” said Nick. “It’s quite a tale.” </p><p> </p><p>Preston grabbed said chairs and brought them to a quieter corner of the diner. As usual Nick did most of the talking, starting from when Preston hired him, then relaying the details of their investigation thus far. He skimmed over a few parts-- meeting the Railroad, their near-death experience outside the television studio, and the information that Danse was himself a synth. </p><p> </p><p>Nick concluded with the events of that morning, the standoff at the homestead and the new ultimatum before them. “This dame’s got her eyes on Danse. He’s supposed to meet her tonight, alone, or else she’ll have Nora killed.” </p><p> </p><p>“Damn. She sounds crazy enough to do it, too.” Preston looked to Danse. “What does she want with you so bad?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s shoulders rose, momentarily shrinking in on himself. His eyes briefly darted to Nick, then he looked away and let out a slow breath. “I… She claims to have known me from before. At the Institute. Before I… escaped.” </p><p> </p><p>Preston merely nodded. Either he already knew Danse was a synth, or he didn’t care whatsoever. “Are you going to meet with her?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” said Danse decisively. “I have to. I offered my word for Nora’s life. I won’t take the chance she’ll be harmed.” </p><p> </p><p>“If only Lacey’s word was worth a damn,” muttered Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, what happens after you meet her?” asked Preston. “She takes the opportunity to snag you too?” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t doubt it.” Danse sighed. “We do have the diary as collateral, and she seemed desperate to get it back. Still, at best I expect she’ll bring me to Nora’s location, secure the diary, and then I’ll end up captive as well.” </p><p> </p><p>“What if we trail you? Find out where she’s bringing you?” asked Nick.</p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely not. If she catches anyone behind me, she’ll kill Nora.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick scowled. “Well, handing you over to a lying murderer and hoping she doesn’t lie or murder you is a pretty dumb plan, if you ask me.” </p><p> </p><p>“She said she wants me to work with her. If I arrive at this meeting and tell her I intend to, there’s a chance she won’t harm me,” said Danse. “But there may be little good I can do on my own, if no one can follow me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Follow…” Preston rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Hang on. I wonder if we might be able to follow you, Danse. Not directly, but maybe with some kind of tracking device.” </p><p> </p><p>“And what if she noticed it?” asked Danse. “She’s an intelligent and technically-savvy woman. Is there some type of tracking device we could trace, but she couldn’t find?” </p><p> </p><p>“If there is, I know just the man to provide it,” said Preston. “Sturges could whip something like that up in no time. Something small and subtle that can’t be easily detected. Hell, knowing him, he’s probably got three or four of them just lying around.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick perked up. “Could he have it ready by midnight?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll ask him,” said Preston. “Got a radio set up in Sanctuary. Give me five minutes and I’ll give you an answer.” </p><p> </p><p>He stepped into another room to use the radio, and returned a few minutes later with a grim smile on. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s got something in the works. It’ll be tight, but he says it’ll be done this afternoon,” said Preston. “I’ll send a runner over to pick it up, have it back here by the evening.” </p><p> </p><p>“So I meet with Lacey, armed with this tracking device.” Danse assembled the plan out loud, steps counted on his fingers. “She brings me to her hidden location. I set off the device, and you’re able to find it, storm the place, and rescue Nora.” </p><p> </p><p>Really, apart from the glaring, obvious flaw, it was a fairly solid plan. Send Danse in to protect Nora. Catch Lacey by surprise, ambush her hideout with a big group of Minutemen, sweep in and save the day. She might be too distracted to react, and too outnumbered to do much when she did. </p><p> </p><p>The flaw, of course, was that it all hinged on feeding Danse into the proverbial woodchipper. Distracting Lacey by sacrificing him into her custody, leaving him with only his wits and brawn to protect him within her clutches. His life as collateral for Nora’s. </p><p> </p><p>Preston had clearly also noticed this flaw. “This is going to be dangerous as hell. Are you gonna be all right in there by yourself?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse, meanwhile, seemed completely blase about the concept. “I can hold my own. Ideally, I’ll catch her off-guard and subdue her before the rest of you even arrive.”</p><p> </p><p>“And if she catches on?” asked Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“A good soldier must be adaptable to any change in the situation,” said Danse. “I’ll be ready to protect Nora at a minute’s notice.” </p><p> </p><p>Preston nodded sagely. He was a soldier too, and no doubt understood exactly where Danse was coming from. But he did at least provide a tempering voice. “If this is too dangerous, Danse, we can think of something else.”</p><p> </p><p>“There is nothing else, Garvey. You know that as well as I do.”</p><p> </p><p>“There actually is,” Nick interrupted. “We could ambush the meeting. Snipe her from three blocks over in the middle of it. Hell, you could tackle and handcuff her mid-sentence.  There’s a dozen other options.”</p><p> </p><p>“And a dozen other failsafes Lacey could have planned for. If she doesn’t get what she wants, if I’m not there to distract her, she has no reason not to have Nora killed.” Danse shook his head. “I won’t take that chance. I won’t gamble with Nora’s life.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not saying we should. But Danse…” Nick looked at him sternly. “You don’t have to do this.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” said Danse calmly. “I do.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The sun sank in the west, painting the sky with a warm rainbow of colors and light. Nick lit up a cigarette. He took a long drag and silently hoped by the time the sun rose again, Nora would be safe and sound.</p><p> </p><p>His own cigarettes had burned up with his coat, but this pack was a gift from Cole. Turned out she had good reason to recognize him, as her family once hired him to investigate her older brother’s disappearance. Murdered by a so-called friend. Digging the case up from his memory banks, Nick was filled with regret that he couldn’t bring the victim home safe. But as Cole told him when she offered the cigarettes, the peace of mind and the comfort of knowing the truth was worth everything to her family. </p><p> </p><p>She and her crew had also brought Nick a spare brown militia coat to wear instead of those goddamn awful coveralls. It still wasn’t quite his style, and with the fedora he thought he looked like the sort of guy they used to arrest on the subway, but it was a huge improvement. </p><p> </p><p>There were about 20 Minutemen on patrol now, so many they’d spread from the diner into the small apartment building across the way. They were attempting to keep a low profile, so they stuck to the building’s courtyard to stay out of sight from the street. Small groups of Minutemen cycled in and out on patrols. At one point, an impromptu training exercise broke out as someone set up a row of cans and plywood targets, and the greener militia members took turns practicing with a .38 pipe rifle. </p><p> </p><p>Danse had been largely slinking around the place, looking somber and deep in thought. However, two hours ago, Nick had been surprised to see him at target practice. He somehow ended up instructing the group, critiquing the techniques of each participant, and giving advice and demonstrations. A couple of the trainees seemed huffy or rolled their eyes at his teaching, but others who looked like they’d never held a gun before were in breathless awe and eagerly copied everything he did. </p><p> </p><p>At current, though, Danse had returned to his lonely stalking and contemplation, wearing  the sort of expression that looked like he didn’t want to be bothered. (Un)fortunately for Danse, Nick had long since stopped caring about bothering him. When he spotted the soldier stepping out of the courtyard, he followed. </p><p> </p><p>Danse leaned against the outside wall of the building, watching the sunset. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his pants, his rifle slung on his back like usual. His bomber jacket was currently in the possession of the Minutemen. A runner arrived with Sturges’ tracking device half an hour ago, and it was being sewn into the jacket to conceal it (Adway’s mother was a seamstress, and he guaranteed he could hide the marble-sized tracker within the lining where it would never be found.) </p><p> </p><p>Nick leaned alongside Danse and offered him the pack of cigarettes. For once, Danse took him up on it, drawing one out. Nick lit it for him, and he mumbled a quiet thanks before taking a drag. </p><p> </p><p>“Tradition,” said Danse. “We’d all get together, drink and smoke before a mission. Some believed it would bring good luck, or some superstitious nonsense. You’d be stronger, fight harder carrying the warmth of your comrades.”</p><p> </p><p>“Or at least the smell of their smokes,” Nick mused. “Maybe a hangover, too.” </p><p> </p><p>“I suspect it served to justify ‘partying’ the night before a mission.” Danse smirked faintly. “I never believed it myself. But I never said so, never discouraged it in my men. Far be it for me to disallow a pleasant moment before uncertainty.” </p><p> </p><p>They watched the sky slowly darkening as the sun sank closer to the distant horizon. </p><p> </p><p>“You all right?” asked Nick. </p><p> </p><p>“In what sense?” </p><p> </p><p>“In… well. Come on. There’s a lot going on. With Lacey, and with Nora. Going in there alone.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not alone,” said Danse. “You and the Minutemen are right behind me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, sure. But it’s asking a lot, for you to put yourself front and center like this. You’re going to be on your own in the line of fire for a while.” </p><p> </p><p>“It wouldn’t be the first time.” </p><p> </p><p>“No, but…  still doesn’t make it easy. Staring down odds like that.”</p><p> </p><p>“It isn’t easy. But it needs to be done.” Danse gave him a brief sidelong glance. “Do I seem upset?” </p><p> </p><p>“No. As usual, you’re cool as a frozen cucumber,” said Nick. “Which, if I’ve gathered anything, means you’ve crammed your real feelings down so hard they’re either going to explode from the pressure, or end up as diamonds.” </p><p> </p><p>That actually drew a chuckle out of him. “I don’t appreciate the accuracy of that accusation.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well, I call ‘em like I see ‘em.” </p><p> </p><p>“That you do.” Danse tapped a bit of ash off his cigarette. “When you’re not obscuring heartfelt sentiment by lacing your statements with sarcasm, hoping no one will notice.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” said Nick. “I resemble that remark.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse chuckled again. “You’re the one who keeps bringing it up, Valentine. So let’s brush aside the sarcasm and acknowledge you’re worried about me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Maybe I am.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m honestly fine. I understand the danger I’m walking into and I accept it.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re accepting it a little too easily, if you ask me,” said Nick.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m a soldier. I’ve been willing to give myself for a cause for a long time.” Danse looked at him sidelong. “Now for the first time in my life, my cause is personal. Someone I cherish. Even if I’m frightened, my heart is ready to fight. And if victory means saving the woman I love, I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure it.” </p><p> </p><p>Well. Nick supposed that explanation made a lot of sense, when he put it that way. It almost made him feel ashamed for doubting him, for jumping to the sort of conclusions he’d been cooking up over the course of the day. </p><p> </p><p>But hell. What was the point of holding anything back now? Danse was going into battle. He may as well have some warmth to carry with him. </p><p> </p><p>"I don’t know if I’m making assumptions, or if you’re really thinking the way it seems you are. I’m not sure. But either way, Danse, before you head in there I want you to hear this.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m listening.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re not expendable.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse looked at him, an eyebrow rising curiously. </p><p> </p><p>“Not because you’re a soldier. Not because you’re a synth, or you might have been a Courser. Not because you think what happened to Nora was your fault,” said Nick. “I don’t want you going in there thinking it’s <em> good </em> if you’re killed. That your life is <em> worth </em>sacrificing. I know if it comes down to it, you’ll be first in line to die for your cause. But it’d be a shame if you went out like that because you thought it was what you deserved.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse blinked, looking stunned. He was clearly speechless for an awkwardly long moment, his eyebrows illustrating the struggle to respond. “Thank you,” he said at last. “That’s an incredibly kind thing to say.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not just saying it.” </p><p> </p><p>“I know.” Danse looked away, smiling faintly. “But the sentiment is still… novel, for someone like me.” </p><p> </p><p>He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. “I assure you, I have no intention to die tonight. I plan to do whatever it takes to save her. If that requires my life, then so be it. But I know very well that Nora would never forgive me.” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” said Nick. “She absolutely wouldn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse looked back at him with a smirk. “Why? Would you miss me?” </p><p> </p><p>It was clearly an echo of Nick prodding at him days before. It didn’t fit into the cadence of the conversation the way he hoped it would. But God help him, Danse was trying to tease. </p><p> </p><p>“I might,” Nick replied smugly. “Where am I going to dig up another big palooka who can wield a wrench as well as a laser?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse lifted a hand. It hovered over Nick as though he couldn’t quite make himself rest it on his shoulder. Nick briefly considered if he should encourage it, or beat him to it, or go for a hug, or do just about anything to break up the intensely awkward moment. Unfortunately, he hesitated <em> way </em>past the point where it wouldn’t just make it even worse. </p><p> </p><p>So Danse ended up simply dropping his hand. They both chuckled nervously. Then they let the moment fade into comfortable, companionable silence.</p><p> </p><p>The two synths smoked together, watching the sun go down. </p><p> </p><p>Danse finished his cigarette first, given he actually had lungs to smoke it with. He extinguished the butt against the brick wall, then held it between his thumb and forefinger as though he was going to look for a trash can. “We’d best head inside. Garvey wants to brief everyone well in advance of midnight.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick nodded and turned to follow him, when something caught his eye. Movement, across the street. A shadow in a window. He stilled and stared at it, trying to discern if it had been an illusion. </p><p> </p><p>“What is it?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“Looked like someone in that shop, there.” Nick pointed at it. “Thought I saw a silhouette move by the glass.” </p><p> </p><p>There, again. A flicker of motion. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Someone’s over there.” Nick tucked his cigarette between his lips and set a hand on his revolver, taking a few careful steps towards the shop. His detection system tingled as something touched the very edges of its range. “Could be a hijacked synth spying on us. We’d better check it out.”  </p><p> </p><p>Danse was right beside him, bringing his rifle to the ready.</p><p> </p><p>The shop in question was an old laundromat, with intact but grimy glass on the windows and door. The closer they got, the more Nick’s detection systems pinged something moving within. Unfortunately, it was fuzzy. He couldn’t tell exactly where it was beyond a rough estimate of its size (human) and distance (ten yards… no, fifteen… no… shit. The damn thing must be on the fritz again. </p><p> </p><p>A fact he was not going to admit out loud to Danse, lest he earn an “I told you so.”) </p><p> </p><p>Danse stopped outside the door and pressed flat against the adjacent wall. Footsteps thudded within the shop. Nick set a hand on the laundromat door and motioned with his fingers. Three. Two. One. He shoved the door open and rushed inside. </p><p> </p><p>A fire extinguisher smashed him in the back of the head.</p><p> </p><p>Nick hit the tile like a sack full of rebar, every system alert screaming at him all at once. The emergency diagnostic showed no real damage, but several of his processes were rebooting themselves from the force of the blow. A woman screamed in terror and there was a scuffle. He discerned it was Danse rushing in to stop a second and more critically damaging attack. </p><p> </p><p>“Stop! Drop it!” </p><p> </p><p>“Get away from me! Get away!”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s all right! Calm down!”  </p><p> </p><p>His optics rebooted and his head cleared as he sat up. Danse held his assailant by the wrists, pinning her back to the counter to keep her still. She was a young woman, tall and slender with ash-blonde hair to her chin. Her casual clothes were worn and filthy. But with a closer look, it wasn’t just dirt staining her shirt and jeans. Streaks of old blood had soaked into the grubby fabric from numerous small wounds. Bruises colored her fair skin, including an ugly fading mark across her face.</p><p> </p><p>Eyes wide, voice shaking, she more or less collapsed under Danse’s grip, falling to her knees. “No! Please! Please don’t hurt me!” </p><p> </p><p>Danse took his hands off her immediately. “I won’t. I promise.” He took a big step back. “Just settle down and let’s talk.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick picked himself up off the floor. The woman’s eyes instantly darted to him, filling with terror and apprehension. This was a familiar problem. “It’s all right. I know I look scary, but I’m a nice synth. I’m not gonna hurt you either.” </p><p> </p><p>“You--” Her brows knit briefly in confusion. </p><p> </p><p>A talking synth did have that effect on people. So he said even more, in his most gentle and un-robotic tone. “Easy, there. It’s all right. Take a deep breath.”</p><p> </p><p>She clutched her hands over her chest. Her eyes squeezed shut and she held back a sob. </p><p> </p><p>Danse took a knee beside her, likely wanting to avoid looming over her. He extended a friendly hand, but didn’t attempt to touch her. “My name is Danse, and this is Nick. We’d like to help you, if we can.” </p><p> </p><p>“Help me.” She sucked in a breath through her teeth. “I do need help. Please. I don’t know where to go or who to ask. Please help me.” </p><p> </p><p>“We will,” said Nick. “We’ve got a bunch of friends in the neighborhood who can help you, too.”</p><p> </p><p>“Could you tell us your name?” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” she said instantly. “They said not to.” </p><p> </p><p>“Who?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>Her eyes flew open and she clamped a hand over her mouth. She looked back and forth between them as though she’d almost spilled a secret. </p><p> </p><p>The gears were turning in Nick’s head. He looked over the terrified young woman once more, taking in details. Bags under her eyes. Listlessness in her movements, in her expression. She was exhausted. Hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten. Bruises and red marks around her wrists. Ropeburns. </p><p> </p><p>It couldn’t be… </p><p> </p><p>“Sweetheart, listen,” said Nick softly. “You’re being very smart, and brave. I bet the Railroad told you not to talk to anyone. But take it from another synth, we’re on their side.” </p><p> </p><p>“Railroad?” Her eyes widened hopefully. <em> Bingo </em>. “You’re Railroad?” </p><p> </p><p>“They’re friends of ours. And I promise we’ll get you safely back to them as soon as we can,” said Nick. </p><p> </p><p>Finally, she let out a sound of relief. A few tears spilled down her cheeks as she nodded. “It’s been days. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I heard people around here and I… I…” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s all right,” said Danse. “You’re safe now.” </p><p> </p><p>After a few more minutes of collecting herself, the synth woman gained some minor semblance of calm. “My name is…” She paused, as though she had to think about it. “Well, I’d like to be called Julia.” </p><p> </p><p>“Julia. Nice to meet you,” said Nick pleasantly. “Are you okay telling us what happened?” </p><p> </p><p>“I was with the Railroad,” Julia murmured. “They were-- taking me to get my memories done. But we were attacked. Gen-2s kidnapped us.” </p><p> </p><p>“Us?” Danse’s eyes widened. </p><p> </p><p>It hit Nick like a freight train. “Julia,” he said softly. “Your designation is--” </p><p> </p><p>She swallowed heavily. “R6-48.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>When oh when are these idiots going to hug it out? </p><p>Correction, NEXT chapter we'll be swapping POVs between Nick and Danse more frequently as events demand. I THINK we're going to make it to 15 chapters total, the way I've currently got things outlined. So shit's gonna start getting real, real soon.</p><p>Just a brief content note as well, there will be some continuing allusions to past physical and emotional abuse coming up in the next few chapters. I don't intend to show any direct depictions, and you should have a pretty good idea of the tone and how I reference such topics by now, but just be aware! I have also been updating the work tags as things come up.</p><p>And incidentally, feel free to hit me up on Tumblr (theggning) if you have any questions or just want to talk fic stuff. I'd love to chat! </p><p>NEXT CHAPTER: Behind enemy lines, mind games, and Nora's fate.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Bye Bye Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A daring escape, behind enemy lines, a disguise, and a revelation.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a quarter to midnight. Danse’s boots thudded softly on the pavement as he walked alone through the empty streets of Cambridge. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Gen-2s started coming out of the alleys. There had to be a dozen. They didn’t try to defend themselves, just attacked everyone. Charmer held my hand. Mustang got in front of us and we tried to run…  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He carried with him his laser rifle and ammunition and what few supplies he had left in his pack. The diary was tucked in his pocket. Sewn into the lining of his jacket, beneath the fur on the collar, was the tracking device. One click and the signal would transmit, leading the Minutemen to the location. Two clicks and they’d move in. </p><p> </p><p>All he had to do was time it right, and stay vigilant and alive long enough to click it. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>There was shouting and gunfire. Mustang was hurt. I don’t know what happened to Orion, but we were running… It looked like we were safe. Then there was an explosion...  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>R6-48-- Julia’s voice still echoed in his head. Weary, worried, fearful. </p><p> </p><p>Valentine had left her with Danse in the laundromat while he ran to fetch some Minutemen backup. He’d figured that would be less frightening than to drag her into a huge crowd of armed strangers. Danse was immediately nervous. He was stern and cold and confident; perhaps comforting to fellow soldiers, but not to a traumatized synth. </p><p> </p><p>So he thought he’d try offering her some common ground. “I’m a synth, too. I can promise, no one with us will hurt you.”</p><p> </p><p>At that news Julia threw herself into his arms, crying hard into his chest. Danse supported her and let her sob, dearly hoping that would be enough to help. He had no idea what else to say or do. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I was lying on the ground. I wasn’t hurt badly, but Charmer was. Her leg was bleeding and she couldn’t move it. Mustang was-- he was dead, it was obvious. The gen-2s surrounded us. I knew they were there for me. I heard Charmer trying to fight when they knocked me out. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Valentine returned with Garvey and Violet, a medic, and they brought Julia to one of the abandoned apartments. She lay on the bed and insisted on clutching Danse’s hand as they examined her wounds. Fortunately superficial, said Violet. Bruises all over, some caused by fists, others by blunt objects. Rope burns on her wrists. Electrical burns across her back. There were remnants of a few lacerations on her torso, but Julia claimed those were from the bomb.</p><p> </p><p>She’d woken up locked in a small room with a heavy door and an observation window. The right wall was slightly damaged, with a crack just big enough to see through. Nora was kept in the room next door. Her leg was badly wounded and she could barely move, but she crawled over to the wall to speak to Julia through the crack every chance she got. </p><p> </p><p>“She told me everything would be all right.” Julia shivered as Violet treated and bandaged the burns on her back. “That no matter what happened, she would keep me safe and get us out.”</p><p> </p><p>And it seemed Nora had largely been able to keep that promise. For the first week of captivity, Lacey had shown very little interest in Julia to the point of forgetting about her entirely. Instead, she was fixated on Nora. Every morning, drones would bring Nora out of the room, and in the evening she’d be back, looking tired and harried. Nora was bandaged and medicated for her broken leg, but it had never been properly treated. Leverage Lacey used to keep her under control so she would “cooperate.” </p><p> </p><p>“Cooperate how?” asked Valentine. No doubt he was imagining the same horrid scenarios Danse was-- like Nora allowing herself to be experimented upon to protect her synth charge. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” said Julia. “She said Lacey wanted to talk to her.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s it?” Garvey murmured. “Why? What about?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not sure.” Julia shook her head. “For a whole week, that’s all she did. Bring Charmer out and talk to her, for hours. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, and Charmer said it wasn’t important.” </p><p> </p><p>By the second week, it seemed Lacey was growing irritated at Nora. Their talks weren’t accomplishing whatever she’d hoped. She turned her focus to Julia again. Nora managed to coerce her out of harming the synth for several days, but couldn’t hold her off forever.</p><p> </p><p>Then earlier that week, things took a turn. Julia’s cell door opened. She’d ducked in the corner, frightened of further torment, but Nora was the one holding the keycard, slumped against the door frame, barely able to stand. </p><p> </p><p>Julia helped her as they ran through the halls together. They found they were in the basement of some sort of medical facility. Just as they reached the stairwell, alarms started going off. Drones were on their way. They ran into the nearest room. There was a grate for an air duct high on the wall above. Nora helped Julia climb into it and told her to get out, to run and find someone to help her. Julia crawled through the vent until she saw light, shoved open a vent to the outside, then ran away into the night. </p><p> </p><p>“And thus, disregard Subject I,” Valentine echoed the entry on the studio terminal. </p><p> </p><p>Thanks to Nora, Julia escaped with her life. But she was suddenly alone and unarmed in a surface world she’d barely spent any time in. She ran through the streets of Cambridge until she found a safe building, where she’d hidden for several days. The longer she hid, the more her panic grew as she feared what Lacey would do to Nora in retribution. Finally, she gathered every ounce of her courage and forced herself to seek help. </p><p> </p><p>The first people she found were the Brotherhood of Steel at the Cambridge Police Station. She drew close and nearly approached them, but both the Railroad and Institute had spoken of the Brotherhood as mortal enemies of synths. Once she realized who they were, she’d run the other way. (And a good thing she did, Danse mentally lamented. The Brotherhood wouldn’t turn away a woman in clear distress, but if they learned she wasn’t a woman at all, she’d be shown no mercy.) </p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, the Minutemen arrived in Cambridge soon after. Julia was trying to figure out if they were safe just before Danse and Valentine discovered her. </p><p> </p><p>“You might be the bravest person I’ve met, kiddo,” said Valentine, with ever the gift for sincere kindness. “It takes a hell of a lot of guts to survive and escape like you did.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re safe with us, Julia,” Garvey assured her. “The Minutemen will get you back to the Railroad as soon as we can.” </p><p> </p><p>She shed a few more tears and sniffled, squeezing Danse’s hand. “You have to save Charmer. Please. She’s only there because of me.” </p><p> </p><p>“We’re going to rescue her tonight,” said Danse firmly. “Everything you’ve told us will help. We’re going to get her out of there and bring her home safe.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse meant it as a vow, to Julia and to himself. Now it was up to him. For the next few hours, Nora’s life was in his hands, determined by his actions. He may be captured. He may be hurt. He may end up another of Lacey’s cruel synth experiments. But with Nora’s life hanging in the balance, with such a burden weighing on his heart, he had little room to care about himself. </p><p> </p><p>And there are few things more dangerous than a soldier with no fear for his own fate. </p><p> </p><p>He loaded his rifle and gathered additional fusion cells. He ate a meal, drank water to ensure his focus. He fruitlessly tried to nap, but gave up. Too much adrenaline already building inside him, tightening his nerves. Instead, he sat alone in the diner, mentally preparing for battle. </p><p> </p><p>The Minutemen held a briefing at 2200 to finalize the plan. After they were all dismissed, Garvey approached him privately to wish him good luck. “I know you know what you’re doing, and you don’t need any advice from me,” he’d said. “But be careful out there, Danse.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll do my best, Garvey. You’ve got things well in hand on this side.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m doing my best too.” Garvey chuckled ruefully and shook his head. “Man, what is it the Brotherhood’s always saying?” </p><p> </p><p>“Ad victoriam?” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s it,” said Garvey. “I think the Minutemen need something catchy like that.” </p><p> </p><p>“We’ll come up with something.” Danse couldn’t help a vague smile. “Ad victoriam, Garvey.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ad victoriam, Danse.” </p><p> </p><p>Garvey wasn’t the only one who’d come to wish him well before he departed. Valentine intercepted him just outside the diner door and offered him one more cigarette, which he declined. </p><p> </p><p>“Still feels wrong, sending you out to do this by yourself,” said Valentine. “Wish there was some other way.” </p><p> </p><p>“So do I,” said Danse. “But you meet the mission as it is, not as it would be ideally.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Valentine took a drag of his cigarette. “Suppose you do.” </p><p> </p><p>“We’ll get this done.” Danse nodded resolutely. “All of us, together. I may be going in alone, but I know you and the Minutemen will be there when I need you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Damn straight.” Valentine smiled. “I’ve done a little brainstorming, too. Got a little idea that might give you an ace in the hole.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh? What are you thinking?” </p><p> </p><p>“Not telling. Better if you’re clueless, so you can’t give my tricks away.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse frowned. Surprises were rarely a good thing on the battlefield, and he was not at all enthused about some secret element to the plan. “Is it dangerous?” </p><p> </p><p>“The whole plan’s dangerous,” said Valentine. “If anything, it’ll spread it around a bit. Share the wealth.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want anyone in danger on my account.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hate to tell you this, Danse, but that’s not going to stop me.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse sighed heavily. He already knew the pointlessness of arguing with the old synth. That stubborn, selfless regard for the safety of others was something he’d learned they had in common. “Just don’t get yourself killed, Valentine. I’ll be extremely disappointed if all my hard work goes to waste.”</p><p> </p><p>“Likewise.” Valentine smirked, and flicked away the ash from his cigarette.</p><p> </p><p>He raised an eyebrow. “What is that supposed to mean?” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine didn’t answer at first. He reached up to rest his hand on Danse’s shoulder and squeeze. “It means I’d be disappointed to lose a new friend so soon.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse blinked, his lips parting in surprise. He caught himself before he looked too terribly dumbfounded though, and hoped the heat in his face wasn’t visible. Slowly he mirrored him, returning the friendly gesture with a squeeze of his own. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” he said softly. “Nick… thank you.” </p><p> </p><p>Valentine smiled. “Take care, Danse.” </p><p> </p><p>“I will.” He gave him a solemn nod, accompanied by the very gentlest of smiles. “See you on the other side.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Danse paced back and forth along the landing of the law office steps. The minutes ticked by, closer and closer to midnight. Tempting as it was to get lost in his head, to indulge in the urge to worry and overthink, he kept his mind present. He had to stay sharp. This was a battlefield. He was a lone soldier in hostile territory, and the enemy would be arriving any time now. </p><p> </p><p>The first signs of life came from the surrounding alleys a few minutes after midnight. A small group of gen-2s emerged, walking slowly out into the street. More or less in unison, they all turned their heads to focus on him, a row of glowing yellow eyes locked on him as they approached. Lacey’s drones. Perhaps he should have established he wanted her alone, as well. The synths walked to the edge of the steps and stopped. None of them were armed, but that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. Danse half-wondered if the lady of the hour wasn’t going to go back on her word and have her drones try to waylay him rather than coming out in the open.</p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, Lacey arrived a few minutes later. She appeared from the north, in her green raincoat with the hood pulled over her blonde locks. She lowered the hood to look around as she came closer. Only when she seemed satisfied Danse was alone did she relax, walking over to greet him at the steps.</p><p> </p><p>She lifted her hands to show she was unarmed. “You’re here.” </p><p> </p><p>“As promised,” said Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“Where is it?” </p><p> </p><p>He drew the diary from his pocket and held it up, turning it around so she could see it from all sides. </p><p> </p><p>“Good. Good.” Lacey pressed her lips sternly. “Now, I’m going to show you something. Establish some guidelines, here.” She pulled back the sleeve of her raincoat to show a device strapped to her left wrist. It looked like an improvised wristwatch with a small antennae protruding from the top, and one large button on the face. “If I press this, Nora dies.” </p><p> </p><p>“How?” </p><p> </p><p>“It will detonate the bomb I placed in her cell,” said Lacey. “So I dearly, dearly hope you don’t do anything to make me feel threatened.”</p><p> </p><p>“I won’t. I want her safe.” </p><p> </p><p>“So you’ve belabored, excessively.” </p><p> </p><p>“I also…” Danse hesitated slightly. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About helping you. About the way things are supposed to be. And my… purpose.” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey quirked an eyebrow. “Have you?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. And I’ve come to a decision.” </p><p> </p><p>“Go on.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse was well aware he was an exceptionally poor liar. So the trick, he learned, was to say things that were technically true, but he knew Lacey wanted to hear. Things she would interpret favorably without the need for him to develop a silver tongue. </p><p> </p><p>“I would like to hear about this plan of yours. If there is something buried in my mind that could help you, I want to know what it is.”</p><p> </p><p>“Truly?” Lacey’s eyes lit up. “I can tell you all about it. I’d love to.” </p><p> </p><p>“And I want to know about the Institute. Our time there, before. My time as a Courser.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” She smiled. “Oh, yes. Anything you want to know.”</p><p> </p><p>“But I want what we agreed on, first,” he said. “Take me to Nora. Let her go free. Then I’ll do whatever you ask me to.” </p><p> </p><p>She nodded. “First, give me the diary.” </p><p> </p><p>“Here.” He tossed the diary on the ground between them. Lacey snatched it up and flipped through it, then sighed with relief and tucked the leather-bound book into the pocket of her raincoat. </p><p> </p><p>“Come with me,” she said. “It isn’t far.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse followed her down the steps and northward. The drones closed in behind them. He stayed well out of arm’s reach of her and watched her out of the corner of his eye. The danger could come from her as easily as from the synths. He was well and truly cornered now, willingly surrounded and at the enemy’s mercy. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s beneath our feet, you know,” said Lacey as they walked. “The Institute. Deep below the surface here, like caves, hidden far underground.”</p><p> </p><p>The Brotherhood suspected the Institute was located somewhere beneath the CIT ruins in Cambridge, but there it was, confirmation. He was walking right above it. The place he was “born” or “created,” however long ago. An eerie feeling came along with the realization.</p><p> </p><p>“So close, and yet so far away.” Lacey chuckled. “It’s impossible to get back in, unless they bring you. I’ve searched all through Cambridge for a way. But I never have found one.” </p><p> </p><p>“How long have you been gone?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“Nearly seven years.” She smiled wistfully, gazing into the middle distance. “I still remember it like it was yesterday. The long, bright hallways. The laboratories. The ambience in the atrium… It was so beautiful. It was my home. Surely, anyone could understand wanting to find your home again.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. I can understand that.” Or find a home at all, in his case.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you really remember nothing of it?” </p><p> </p><p>“Not a thing.” </p><p> </p><p>“How cruel, to steal your memories of home. To rob you of who you were.” Lacey wrinkled her nose with disgust. “I can’t understand how it’s better for a synth to be… deluded that way.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a choice they can make, as I understand it. The synths can ask for it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why would they want to?” </p><p> </p><p>“Because they’re scared,” said Danse. “They want to live without being constantly afraid.” </p><p> </p><p>“Afraid of what?” Lacey scoffed. “In the Institute, we believe in science and facts. In the truth. It’s a disservice, a cruel lie to deny one the truth of their existence.” </p><p> </p><p><em> As machines </em> , Danse thought. <em> As slaves. </em> A convenient “truth” as decided by those who benefited from using synths however they liked. </p><p> </p><p>“Perhaps so,” was the only answer he could muster that he didn’t think would enrage her. </p><p> </p><p>“How did you learn the truth?” she asked.</p><p> </p><p>“The Brotherhood acquired records from the Institute. DNA samples. My name…” He drifted off, then corrected himself. “My… designation and my face were listed on a synth roster.”</p><p> </p><p>“That must have been painful.” Lacey sounded for all the world to be sympathetic.</p><p> </p><p>“It was,” said Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“I can hardly imagine what it was like to realize it,” she near-whispered. “To remember what you are. To find out nothing you know is real. Everything torn out from under you in an instant because of a lie.” </p><p> </p><p>He bit his tongue to stop himself from snapping at her. Having the worst day of his life narrated back to him by this woman who didn’t even know him… the twisted ache in his chest was nearly unbearable. </p><p> </p><p>“You should understand better than anyone. How is it right to teach synths to believe in a lie? Brainwashing them to maintain an illusion that only hurts more in the end-- and hurts more than synths. Humanity itself suffers under this masquerade.”</p><p> </p><p>Lacey looked at him plaintively. “All I want is to heal this suffering. To protect the sanctity of human life. To restore truth to human and synthkind alike. You understand now, don’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>Such a familiar appeal to logic and reason and truth. Such rigid definitions of man and machine, a clear delineation that Danse now knew was anything but. If he closed his eyes, he could be hearing this from any given member of the Brotherhood of Steel. From Arthur Maxson in one of his impassioned speeches. From Paladin Danse, model soldier, and diehard believer in that rigid definition of humanity. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” He closed his eyes briefly. “I understand.”</p><p> </p><p>“I knew it.” Lacey’s gaze softened. “I knew you would if you only listened.” </p><p> </p><p>They approached a building near the north edge of the campus. The weathered sign read “University Medical Research” and like the house in Prospect Hill, the building looked completely abandoned. Lacey approached one of the side doors and unlocked it with a set of keys. </p><p> </p><p>Immediately within the door, they were greeted with a heavy security system. A mesh of laser tripwires spanned the hallway and complex equipment lined the ceilings and the wall. It all appeared to be prewar, repaired and made operational again. </p><p> </p><p>“Voice command: deactivate security measures. User authorization, Exile,” said Lacey. </p><p> </p><p>The laser grid vanished and a few other clicks and chirps indicated other unseen security measures temporarily switched off. Lacey ushered Danse through and stopped him on the other side of all the equipment before reactivating one of the scanners. </p><p> </p><p>“Did you bring this back online yourself?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” she said. “This facility was used for highly-classified government projects before the war. I was fortunate much of it was still in good repair.” </p><p> </p><p>One by one, the drones behind them slipped through the one operational scanner. One by one, a yellow light swept over them. “<em> Authorized, </em>” a computerized voice announced for each.</p><p> </p><p>Danse puzzled out this function rather quickly. It was scanning the drones for the receiver chips Lacey installed, ensuring only her synths could enter the facility. After all, she would be in massive trouble if an Institute synth happened to slip in with the others. </p><p> </p><p>Once the third drone cleared the scanner, Lacey addressed the row of them. “Mission parameters: ensure security of facility and protect subject Exile.” Two of the drones let out electronic chirps, and the third after. Then they marched away to follow orders.</p><p> </p><p>“There. Now, if you’ll come with me, we can sit and have a more comfortable conversation.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where is Nora?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“She’s safe, as I said.” </p><p> </p><p>“We had a deal.” </p><p> </p><p>“I will release her shortly,” said Lacey sternly. “Come with me first.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse grit his teeth, frustrated. He couldn’t push too hard. He couldn’t put Lacey on edge. Right now, as difficult as it was, as close as he was to Nora, he had to play a role of compliance. </p><p> </p><p>He was at least able to calm himself a bit by enacting the first step of the plan. As he followed Lacey through the building, and when he knew she wasn’t paying attention, he clicked the tracking device in his jacket once. The signal was on. The Minutemen would be gathering outside to wait for the second one. </p><p> </p><p>They moved through the main floor of the facility, past ordinary-looking offices and laboratories long stripped of their equipment. Their destination was a room labeled OBSERVATION. There was a long table and chairs in various stages of disrepair. Lacey gestured for Danse to take a seat. </p><p> </p><p> “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” She vanished into the hallway, leaving Danse to look around. </p><p> </p><p>Television monitors lined the wall, many broken, others flicking back and forth between still images of dark hallways. There was quite a bit of complicated computer equipment in here, some of which reminded him of Listening Post Bravo. Danse imagined doctors and scientists sitting at the table, watching the monitors, taking notes on what they were observing. “Medical research,” or whatever disgraceful abuse of ethics and good sense could be dismissed under the phrase back in the soulless capitalist hellscape of 2077.</p><p> </p><p>Lacey returned a few minutes later with, of all things, an aluminum tray. A glass of water. Some sort of cold porridge in a warped plastic bowl. A spoon. She set it in front of Danse, then sat around the corner of the table from him.</p><p> </p><p>He eyed the contents of the tray, then glanced at her. She smiled with all the pride of a housewife who’d prepared a decadent meal. </p><p> </p><p>“What is this?” he asked. </p><p> </p><p>“Hospitality,” said Lacey. “Eat.” </p><p> </p><p><em>Certainly </em>not. “Thank you, I’m not hungry.” </p><p> </p><p>“You look exhausted. I imagine your programming is overdue for nourishment. Please, eat.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse wouldn’t consume anything Lacey prepared if she held a gun to his head. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind it was drugged. So rather than fall for an easy and obvious trap, he decided to get her focused on something else. “May we talk about the Institute?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Of course.” She squirmed eagerly and folded her hands in her lap. “What can I tell you?”</p><p> </p><p>This was not seeing to Nora’s safety. But it was keeping Lacey distracted, buying valuable time for the Minutemen to get into position around the building. Danse was determined to engage her, to ease her into a false sense of security that might provide him the opportunity he needed. </p><p> </p><p>“Everything. Anything,” he said. “What do you know about me?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m afraid I can’t tell you when you were built, exactly. I grew up in the Institute. I worked in robotics for some time, then moved to the SRB. That was when I met you,” said Lacey. “We worked together for over five years before you escaped.”</p><p> </p><p>“Five years…” Interesting. Lacey claimed Danse escaped the Institute at least 15 years ago. Plus five was 20. So they met 20 years ago, and she had allegedly been a robotics scientist for “some time” before that? Provided the Institute only employed adults, Lacey looked amazingly youthful for a woman over 40 years old. </p><p> </p><p>“You were a remarkable Courser. Built for the role. Your body, your demeanor-- perfect for the job.” Lacey smiled at him. “You’d bring back runners at twice the rate of the others. And you were a force to be reckoned with in battle. I can’t know how many of the Institute’s enemies you single-handedly destroyed, but you were greatly feared. And greatly respected.” </p><p> </p><p>The praise all hit him hollow, drifting through like wind rustling a ragged, holey flag. There was no honor in it, no pride like he used to feel at his prestige within the Brotherhood. Lacey may as well have been talking about someone else. And she was, technically. </p><p> </p><p>“After the SRB recruited me, I worked on the synths reclaimed after escaping. I helped rewire their cognitive paths, to reset them back to their proper states. But my groundbreaking work came when I decided to study the malfunction in synths that too-closely emulates human psychology.” </p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“A synth is a machine. Thus the mimicry of human emotions, human thoughts, human self-determination is nothing more than a malfunction,” she explained. “So I wanted to study this malfunction. What causes it to manifest? How closely can it mimic human reactions? Understanding that would be key to patching this issue out of future upgrades. So, with your help, we studied together. When I needed my own personal Courser, you were an obvious choice. </p><p> </p><p>“You brought in runners. I would wipe them clean. Then we’d try to replicate the malfunction. I observed while you applied the test stimuli.”</p><p> </p><p>Something about that word made his skin prickle. “‘Stimuli?’” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Of all sorts. Fear. Anger. Pleasure. Pain. Both mental and physical.”  </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s stomach twisted sick. “You mean torture.” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” she said patiently. “It’s easy to draw a broad stroke like that, but our work was nothing akin to torture. It was scientifically vetted, with purpose and documentation.” </p><p> </p><p>“You had me torture them. You watched while I hurt them.” His voice rose slightly. “To see if I could-- break them?” </p><p> </p><p>“Replicate the malfunction,” she corrected. </p><p> </p><p>He had to keep up the charade. He had to keep acting like he was cooperating, like he was willing to hear her out and potentially rejoin her. But his ability to pretend was swirling quickly down the drain as his heart raced, and his fists tightened. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s despicable,” he said. “Absolutely reprehensible.”  </p><p> </p><p>“No it wasn’t. It was important work. It was research.”</p><p> </p><p>“The same sort of research that left that synth dead in your laboratory?”</p><p> </p><p>“You cannot kill what was never alive.” Lacey’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You used to know better.” </p><p> </p><p>“Because I was <em> programmed </em>to.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. And so you knew exactly what you were and what you were meant to be,” said Lacey. “M7-97. One of the finest Coursers in the bureau, a peerless hunter, a mighty soldier. One of our most valuable assets… and my partner.”</p><p> </p><p>He pictured himself in a Courser uniform, towering, heartless and cold. A cruel predator capturing runaway synths, bringing them to Lacey. Torturing them, applying “stimuli” to map out their minds, to find the breaking point where machines became so confused they believed they were people. </p><p> </p><p>People. Machines. Synths like Nick, Glory, Ratchet, L8-81, Bryce, Julia, <em> Danse </em>-- how many did he hurt? How many did he break? How many did he cruelly torment, screaming and begging for mercy, while Lacey looked on with approval? </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry if you find this news upsetting, M7. I understand that the Railroad corrupted your mind when they destroyed your identity. But it’s the truth,” she said. “You once understood the value in what we did.” </p><p> </p><p>“You act as though I had a preference, or any choice in the matter.” Danse glared at her, setting his jaw. “But I didn’t choose to hunt other synths, to cause them pain on command. They built me that way. They programmed me that way.” </p><p> </p><p>“And you were content with it. You accepted your role.” Lacey stood up. “You were happy, if I can ascribe a human feeling to it.” </p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t <em> happy </em>,” Danse snapped. “I didn’t know any better.” </p><p> </p><p>“But now you do?” She smirked. “Are you happy now, <em> ‘Danse </em>?’ Happy having your cruel joke of a ‘life’ pulled out from under you? Happy knowing you are a broken machine, existing without purpose?” </p><p> </p><p>She took a step closer to him. “I can give it back to you. Work with me again, M7, and I can return everything that was stolen from you.”</p><p> </p><p>“So I can be your muscle again? Another Bryce to run your errands and torture your subjects?” </p><p> </p><p>“So I can return your memories. Your identity.” Lacey slowly put out her hand, palm up, offering it to him. “Your purpose.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse stared at it for a long, silent moment. Then he grit his teeth and stood up.</p><p> </p><p>"You don’t get to decide my purpose.” His voice was steely. “You don’t get to tell me who I am. That’s my choice. Just as it was my choice to run away from the Institute. To have my mind wiped. To live this new life the way I want. I don’t care what I was built or programmed to be. I decide what I am.” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey’s brows knit together, and her lips twisted into a sneer. “You’re a synth. No matter what you pretend or how you delude yourself, you are a machine.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. I am,” said Danse. “But that doesn’t matter.” </p><p> </p><p>She didn’t get as angry at that as he expected she would. Her expression faded into a mix between amusement and frustration. She shook her head, then she took a few steps back away from the table. “If you care to remember, we had a deal. I bring you to Nora. I let her go free. Then you do whatever I ask of you.” </p><p> </p><p>“That was the deal,” said Danse coolly. </p><p> </p><p>“Quite the dramatic exchange, for the life of one woman.” Lacey backed over to the panel of instruments on the wall. “So tell me, M7. Who is Nora to you, anyway?” </p><p> </p><p> “Does it matter?”</p><p> </p><p>“Inquiring minds want to know.” </p><p> </p><p>“She’s many things. She was first my subordinate in the Brotherhood. I sponsored her recruitment. She’s my dear and trusted friend.”</p><p> </p><p>“Only a friend, hmm?” Lacey chuckled. “I imagine not. The way you’ve been carrying on over her, I have to wonder if it isn’t something more.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse knew his expression gave that answer away. </p><p> </p><p>“The malfunction in the gen-3 mind is… truly, fascinating. Such stunningly lifelike simulations of human thought patterns, human emotions.” Lacey leaned back against the panel on the wall, her fingers idly playing with the controls. “For all my work, for all my research, I never did find the trigger. Never did find out what, exactly causes the malfunction to occur. But when it does, it manifests itself in such interesting ways.” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey flipped a switch. There was a crackle, a microphone suddenly picking up sound. “Nora. Good evening, Nora. Wake up.” </p><p> </p><p>There were a few seconds of silence, followed by a moan, and a muffled whimper. </p><p> </p><p>“Wake up, sleepyhead. There’s someone who wants to talk to you.” </p><p> </p><p>After a few more seconds, a voice came over the speaker. “<em> Who?” </em>  </p><p> </p><p>It was modulated through the speaker. It was quiet. It was weak. But Danse would know anywhere it was Nora. </p><p> </p><p>He shoved the table aside and rushed to the panel of instruments, looking for the microphone. “Nora? Nora, are you all right?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Danse </em> ?” Her tone rose, filling with trepidation. “ <em> Oh my God. Danse? Is that- </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s me. I’m here.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> No. Oh, no. Danse-- Danse please, you have to- </em>” Nora suddenly gasped and broke down into an awful, distressed sound of pain. </p><p> </p><p>“Nora. Talk to me, Nora. It’s going to be fine--” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Lacey, no! Please! Please, not him! Let him go, Lacey. I’m begging you. Please, let him go! </em>” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey’s smile grew as she sat listening. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Lacey! PLEASE! </em>” </p><p> </p><p>She flicked a switch, and Nora’s voice vanished as the signal went dead. </p><p> </p><p>Danse instantly turned on her. “What have you done to her?” he shouted. “Where is she?” </p><p> </p><p>“Agitation. Flushed skin, indicating a rise in blood pressure,” Lacey murmured clinically. “Predictable stress response.” </p><p> </p><p>He stomped towards her. “Take me to her, now!” </p><p> </p><p>“Ah ah ah.” Lacey lifted her wrist and indicated the detonator button, waggling her finger. “Mind your manners.” </p><p> </p><p>He froze. It took every ounce of his self control not to lunge across the room and snap Lacey in half. He exhaled harshly and clenched his fists. </p><p> </p><p>“Here’s what’s going to happen now,” she said. “You and I are going downstairs to the laboratory. We’re going to take a little dive into your memories. And when, and if, I find what I need, then we’ll talk about what happens with Nora.” </p><p> </p><p>“That wasn’t the agreement.” </p><p> </p><p>“I lied.” Lacey gestured to the door. “Cry about it.” </p><p> </p><p>Damn it. <em> Damn it. </em>How could he have been so reckless and easily riled up? He’d completely blown the diplomatic angle, the ability to pretend he was on board with Lacey’s schemes. Now she was on her guard, antagonistic, and the slightest wrong move would make her take it out on Nora. Lacey knew exactly what collateral she had and exactly how to hold it over his head.</p><p> </p><p>But if he let her get him into that laboratory… if he let her get him into that memory device, he might not get another chance. The standoff was crumbling and time was running out. He had to act, and act fast, or Nora would die. </p><p> </p><p>Lacey stepped out of the observation room and Danse followed. There was a split second where her attention was focused on the hallway ahead rather than him, and he took it. </p><p> </p><p>He lunged, throwing his weight against Lacey to knock her off-balance. Snatching her by the wrists, he twisted them behind her and pinned her against the wall. Perhaps she truly didn’t expect it, he thought, as he immobilized her-- </p><p> </p><p>She shoved back with shocking force, unnatural for someone of her size, and with a hard outward thrust of both arms she managed to untwist herself from Danse’s pin. He desperately snatched her left wrist and pried his fingers under the band. She shrieked in pain as he snapped the detonator band right off and it came away in his hand. His first instinct was to rip apart the wires on the back of the detonator, but he unfortunately wouldn’t get the chance. </p><p> </p><p>Lacey laid into him, socking him in the solar plexus with a rib-shattering punch that knocked him clean across the hall, slamming his back into the wall. He staggered and she moved fast-- far, far too fast-- sweeping his legs out from under him and outright tackling him to the floor.</p><p> </p><p>They hit the ground together. Danse huffed to regain his wind while simultaneously grappling with Lacey. He kicked and squirmed and slammed his free palm up to shove her off of him, but she kept him pinned with one hand. The other vanished into her raincoat pocket and emerged with a syringe. </p><p> </p><p>Danse threw everything he had into getting her away, but to no avail. She grabbed him by the hair and smacked his head into the floor, stunning him long enough for her to stick the syringe into the side of his neck. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, M7. You naughty, naughty, naughty boy…” </p><p> </p><p>His blood began to tingle, a hot, slow and sickly sensation pulsing through him. The familiar painkilling rush of MedX, but far stronger than any chems he’d ever been treated with. <em> Twilight </em>. </p><p> </p><p>“I wanted to make things easy on you. I wanted to make you mine. But you’re just as naughty as you ever were.” </p><p> </p><p>A heavy, sleepy feeling spread all through his body. His vision blurred, and his limbs suddenly weighed hundreds of pounds.</p><p> </p><p>“Now I’m afraid I’ll have to punish you. Then we’ll put an end to this naughtiness once and for all.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a maniacal grin on Lacey’s face, a wicked glimmer in her eyes. He couldn’t summon the strength to fight back as she picked up his hand, still clutching the detonator, and moved his thumb over the button.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” he croaked out. “No--” </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s count to three, my darling,” she whispered. “One. Two…” </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t hear the “three.” He slipped out of consciousness as Lacey pushed his thumb to compress the button. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>There were roughly seven synth drones patrolling the hallways of the University Medical Research building. Their bright yellow eyes lit up the dark and their slim bodies threw uncanny shadows as they marched through the corridors, in and out of empty offices and labs, up and down the stairs. </p><p> </p><p>One of the drones beeped as it detected some unusual movement in the head researcher’s suite. It about-faced on its path and walked towards the office at the end of the first floor hallway. “<b>Is someone there?</b>” it spoke in a mechanical voice. </p><p> </p><p>The drone entered the doorway. It turned its head left and right, surveying the room. Nothing amiss. Just another unit standing inside the door. The drone thought nothing of it, not even when the other unit lifted a hammer and bashed the drone’s head in, sending it to the floor with a shower of sparks and a clatter. </p><p> </p><p>Six drones. </p><p> </p><p>Nick chuckled and stepped over its fallen form. “Nobody here but us synths.” </p><p> </p><p><em>Five </em>drones. And one old synth with a mind of his own, naked as a jaybird. Or unclothed, anyway, as he told himself every time he got uneasy about his bare mechanical body. Modesty was a social construct that didn’t apply to androgynous machines, no matter how indecent his human mind felt about it. </p><p> </p><p>He’d come up with the idea sometime that afternoon, a little backup plan in the near-certain event Lacey Vaughn proved to be a dangerous liar. He ran it by Preston, just to make sure the idea was only half as stupid as he personally thought it was. </p><p> </p><p>The Minuteman lieutenant had widened his eyes and reached beneath his hat to clutch his forehead. “Jeez, Nick. I don't know…” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, trust me,” he replied. “Neither do I.”</p><p> </p><p>After Danse departed, Nick ran off to the apartments. He stripped off his coat, his shirt, his hat and piled them on a bed. Then with a screwdriver and pliers to assist him, he opened up the plate on his left leg and searched for a power wire he could divert. A little snip, a little copper, a little screw, and he inserted the receiver chip from the synth the Minutemen had dispatched earlier. Crucially, Nick did not connect it to his synthetic nerves in any way. Couldn’t hijack his brain if it wasn’t hooked up to do so. </p><p> </p><p>The chip thrummed as power ran through it, pulsing a little as it received signals from elsewhere. It felt a bit like an itchy scab that couldn’t be scratched, but annoyance was the worst it could do to him. He replaced the plate on his leg and headed off.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t take him long to find a group of drones, no doubt hovering in the area to intercede in Lacey’s meeting if they were called. Nick purposefully made his movements rigid, stared straight-ahead and let his mechanical nature shine as he approached the other gen-2s. </p><p> </p><p>As he suspected they might, both of them turned to look at him.</p><p> </p><p>“<b>Chip detected,</b> ” one said in the typical electronic monotone. “ <b>Ally acknowledged.</b>” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, don’t mind me,” Nick muttered. “I’m just another of your buddies.” </p><p> </p><p>“<b>Ally acknowledged</b>,” the other drone agreed. Seemed like they couldn’t even hear him. Maybe Lacey had installed some kind of voice recognition that would only make them respond to her. </p><p> </p><p>He stood silent and still like the other two drones, waiting. Watching. Thinking how there was a time, long ago, when he really was exactly like these things. A gen-2 synth unit, fresh off the assembly line, a faceless, nameless, mass-produced mechanical man with nothing to define him. Not until some Institute genius decided to start playing with his brain, cracking him open and installing the prototype upgrades that allowed him to accept the memory data of one Detective Nick Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>It could have been any of them. He could have been made into anyone. But it was this body, and this personality. On the barest level of fact, discounting his own thoughts on the matter, that was all he really was. </p><p> </p><p>See, those were the kinds of musings that would keep him up at night. Good thing he wasn’t capable of sleep. </p><p> </p><p>Minutes ticked by, and the drones suddenly went on the move. They started to walk out towards the law offices down the street, where the meeting was to take place. </p><p> </p><p>“Showtime.” Not that his fellow gen-2s would appreciate the remark. But he’d been thinking too deeply about it and if he didn’t say something to differentiate himself from the other robotic simulacra, he was going to scream. </p><p> </p><p>From there, it was a matter of keeping a straight face and mimicking the other two drones to the best of his ability. He moved how they moved, walked how they walked, even fell into step with them as they followed Lacey and Danse to her hideout, some old medical research building. </p><p> </p><p>The real test came with the security system. Nick’s heart would have been pounding, if he had one, watching the scanner sliding over the other two drones. He had no choice but to endure the scan, too. He hoped to every higher power he may or may not believe in that whatever configuration he’d fiddled up with the chip would pass muster. </p><p> </p><p>To his relief, the system beeped, approving of the active chip within him. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, though. He stood in line with the other two drones and found himself face to face with Lacey herself. </p><p> </p><p>She’d captured and opened up and hijacked all of these drones herself. Surely, she would recognize her own handiwork-- or lack thereof. Surely, she would take one look at Nick and realize she’d never seen that unit before. </p><p> </p><p>But it was apparent she saw nothing. Just a line of machines, insignificant gen-2s, ready and willing to do her bidding. “Mission parameters: ensure security of facility and protect subject Exile.”</p><p> </p><p>The two drones chirped. Nick flexed his vocalizer and chirped too. Lacey didn’t bat an eyelash as she led Danse away. And that gave Nick the run of Lacey’s hideout, so long as he acted the part out in the hallways. </p><p> </p><p>Nick set his hammer back on the desk and set to investigating the head researcher’s office. It appeared to serve as Lacey’s room within this facility, scattered with signs of being lived-in. A plush couch with a blanket on it, recently slept-on. Half-empty bottles of water and half-eaten snack cakes. A few tools and weapons laid out neatly on the table. A keycard sitting next to the terminal. </p><p> </p><p>Jackpot. He triumphantly snatched the keycard in time to hear a pair of mechanical voices out in the hall, announcing they’d detected movement. He grabbed the hammer again and waited by the door. </p><p> </p><p>Four drones. Three drones. </p><p> </p><p>“Poor dumb bastards,” Nick muttered to himself as he dragged their remains out of the doorway. As tempted as he was to lure the rest of the drones in here and do away with them as well, he had more important things to worry about. </p><p> </p><p>He attempted to slip the keycard into his pocket, before remembering he was naked and didn’t have one. With a sigh, he did his best to conceal it in his palm, and stepped out into the hallway to resume his robotic “patrol.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick could hear Lacey and Danse’s voices from another room on the first floor, somewhere down an adjacent hallway. Everything sounded calm and cordial, and Danse was keeping her distracted. Perfect. He would only need a few minutes. </p><p> </p><p>He located the stairwell down to the basement, where Julia had said the “cells” were. It wasn’t until he got down there that he realized she was being quite literal. </p><p> </p><p>Wide metal hallways lined with many small rooms. Heavy security doors and reinforced observation windows. Fancy heavy-duty maglocks and cardreaders. Slots in the doors to slide food or water through. It was an actual goddamn prison. </p><p> </p><p>Nick wished he was surprised to find such a thing in the basement of a medical research company. It would honestly be more shocking to find a prewar company that <em> wasn’t </em>involved in the most heinous of business back before the bombs dropped. No doubt all these cells had once held FEV mutants, or super soldiers, or bioweapons, or whatever the evil scientific folly du jour had been.</p><p> </p><p>The basement was silent as a tomb, and peering in a few of the observation windows, the cells seemed to be empty. Then from the far end of the right hall came a soft noise. A familiar wailing sob. </p><p> </p><p>Nick hurried to the door in question, but couldn’t see through it. The glass in the observation window was blocked by 200 years of filth and grime. He located the cardreader off to the side and scanned the keycard. The maglocks disengaged with a clunk and the door slid open.</p><p> </p><p>In the corner, Nora lay on her back on a cot, covering her face. She abruptly dropped her hands and lifted her head, staring at the synth in the doorway. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face tearstained, her expression twisted in shock. She must have thought he was one of the drones. But before he could say a word to assure her he wasn’t, she let out a high-pitched gasp. </p><p> </p><p>“Nick?” She propped an elbow to try and sit up. “Is that you? Nick?” </p><p> </p><p>“Nora.” He hurried to her side, falling on his knees beside the cot. “Thank God.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nick!” Nora threw herself at him, curling her arms around him and bursting into tears. He held her tight to his chest as she cried. </p><p> </p><p>And Jesus, if he’d been built with the capability, he would have cried too. She was alive. More than two weeks in the clutches of a psycho sadist scientist, gone with barely a trace, and Nora Carter was alive.  </p><p> </p><p>“Here you are, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Here you are.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nick. Oh my God. It’s really you. Y-you found me--” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. It’s gonna be all right.” For a few minutes she was inconsolable, so he smoothed his fingertips in circles through her hair and spoke gentle things in her ear. </p><p> </p><p>When she finally caught her breath, she pulled away and he offered her a smile. “Thought my disguise was pretty good. How’d you know it was me?”</p><p> </p><p>She sniffed, scrubbing her eyes with her knuckles. “I’d know your face anywhere.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hard to forget this ugly mug, huh?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve never been so happy to see it.” She sucked in a breath through her teeth, and managed the very weakest  of smiles. “You’re looking good. D-did you have some work done?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll tell you the story later, doll. Are you all right?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” said Nora, though she sure as hell didn’t look it. Pale skin, feverish and clammy, her hair and clothes damp with sweat. She trembled as though cold, and dark circles shadowed beneath her sunken gray eyes. Both of her legs were wrapped in grimy bandages from the knee down.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t lie to me,” Nick scolded gently. “What did she do to you?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s-- not as bad as I look, I swear.” Nora forced another deep breath. “It’s some kind of MedX. She kept dosing me. I’m… I think I’m having withdrawals.” </p><p> </p><p>Well, that was one way to keep your captive docile and too weak to fight back. “And both legs?”</p><p> </p><p>“The bomb broke one,” Nora murmured. “L-Lacey broke the other.” </p><p> </p><p>“Jesus… Wasn’t happy you let Julia get away, huh?” </p><p> </p><p>“Julia?” Nora gasped. “She made it?” </p><p> </p><p>“Safe and sound. The Minutemen are taking care of her,” said Nick. “Now it’s your turn. Let’s get the hell out of here.” </p><p> </p><p>“Danse,” she said suddenly. “Nick, she said she’s got Danse.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, doll,” he said. “It was part of the plan.” </p><p> </p><p>“Plan?” Nora’s tired eyes widened substantially. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, the plan to rescue you.” </p><p> </p><p>“You guys made a plan? You and Danse?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yep.” </p><p> </p><p>Her jaw dropped with visible surprise. “Like-- <em> together </em>?” </p><p> </p><p>Nick couldn’t help a low chuckle. “Miracles do happen.”</p><p> </p><p>This no doubt shocking news only distracted Nora for a few seconds. “We can’t leave without him. We have to save him. He’s a synth, she’ll-- she’ll kill him, Nick.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” he assured her. “We’re not gonna let him swing in the wind. As soon as I get you to safety, I’m coming back for him.” </p><p> </p><p>Nora let out a shaky exhale and nodded. “Okay. Okay. I should help too. I should...” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> You </em> should get to a doctor right away.” Nick gingerly slid an arm under her knees and the other behind her back to hoist her from the cot. He’d once worried if his rickety old limbs could hold her weight, but his new ones held strong and steady as he carried her bridal-style. </p><p> </p><p>“I-it’s not that bad.” She slung an arm over his shoulder and curled against his chest, shivering softly. “I’m just so tired.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick brought her out of the cell and into the hall. “The Minutemen ought to be waiting outside right about now. We’ll get you into good hands, then I’ll be back for Danse.” </p><p> </p><p>“Take me with you,” Nora insisted. “I can help.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sweetheart, you’re hurt.” </p><p> </p><p>“Not too hurt to shoot,” she growled. “I want to see the look on that little harpy’s face when I feed her a bullet.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know. I get it,” Nick soothed. “And if you didn’t have two broken legs I know you could handle it, easy. But here we are.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nick, I’ll be f-” </p><p> </p><p>An explosion burst behind them, from within Nora’s former cell. A blast of heat and dust and shrapnel shattered the windows outward, and the force made Nick stumble forward, nearly dropping Nora to the floor. He knelt and curled over her, reflexively shielding her with his body in case there were more to follow. </p><p> </p><p>There weren’t. Smoke poured from the broken windows, and the orange flicker of flames danced across the dark hallway. </p><p> </p><p>Nick’s coolant pump was racing. The shock was so great he had a few diagnostic alerts popping up. Meanwhile Nora clutched him tighter, shaking so hard he could feel her Pipboy rattling against his torso. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” he said as calmly as he could. “Let’s go ahead and get you outside.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>His back hit padding and plastic, the seat of a chair. Danse abruptly surged back to consciousness and started to fight. The drugs were liquid lead coursing through his veins, like heavy chains weighing every movement, but he still kicked and thrashed and threw his fists and his elbows as hard as he could. His vision was blurred. He couldn’t see a damn thing, only flashes of light and colors and movement.</p><p> </p><p>Plastic hands gripped his shoulders, his wrists. They pushed him down, restrained his arms, held them tight as ropes lashed his wrists to the arms of the chair. </p><p> </p><p>“Be still,” said Lacey’s voice in his ear. “Don’t struggle. You’ll only hurt yourself worse.” </p><p> </p><p>The ropes abraded his skin as he kept on thrashing. He threw his weight forward and back, pushing off the floor to try and force himself free. </p><p> </p><p>“What did I say?” </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t get his lips around his voice, so he shouted instead. A gloved hand gripped his chin, forced his head back, and a fist struck him in the stomach, again and again and again, then one final blow across his face. It stung like hell. He choked to breathe. The taste of blood filled his mouth from a cut lip. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone. But you all make it so. Fucking. <em> Difficult </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>The ropes lashed around his ankles now, binding his boots back against the chair. A heavy weight sank down on his head, some sort of helmet with wide and clumsy equipment attached to it. Straps tightened it in place. </p><p> </p><p>“Won’t let you--” Danse burst out. </p><p> </p><p>“Be quiet.” </p><p> </p><p>“Won’t let you-- kill me.” </p><p> </p><p>“I told you. I’m not going to kill you.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’d better. You monster. You killed her. <em> You killed her </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>She was dead. His cherished friend and confidante. His light, his moon, his Nora. The woman he loved was dead, and Lacey was the one to blame. The one who stole her, and tormented her, and killed her with the push of a button. Ended her life, and all that was left of Danse’s.</p><p> </p><p>But he couldn’t die. Not now. Not yet. </p><p> </p><p>Not because he had any reason to live without her. Not even because he wanted to. But he would not die consumed by this righteous anger. He would not die without his vengeance. He would not die until he grabbed Lacey by the neck and pinned her to the ground, twisting, strangling her until that pretty smile turned blue and he squeezed all the life out of her. No guns. No glory. Only the sick, primal thirst to kill her with his bare hands. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll kill you,” Danse snarled. “If it’s the last thing I do.” </p><p>   </p><p>Her fingers grazed over him. An electrode stuck to his temple, then another down his shirt, over his heart. </p><p> </p><p>His blurry vision finally focused enough to make out reality before him. He was staring at the screen built into the makeshift memory lounger. Behind it, on the edges of his vision, Lacey was busily hooking the machine up to a terminal.</p><p> </p><p>“This is how it’s meant to be,” she said. “I knew ever since I saw you again that you were meant to find your way back to me. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll fix everything.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll never help you. I’ll never serve you.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’ll never remember when you didn’t.” She beamed. “Hold on, my darling. All I need is one little thing from your memories. Let me look for it first. And after that I promise, I <em> promise </em>I’ll make it better. I’ll erase them all. I’ll give you back yourself. Your true self.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse kept struggling to no avail. The drugs had exhausted him, and he couldn’t get out of the restraints. He fought for breath, literally shaking with some measure of combined anger, fear, and desperation. “Why are you doing this?” </p><p> </p><p>“Really?” Lacey briefly glanced at him over her shoulder. “I think I’ve made that perfectly clear.”</p><p> </p><p>“But it’s a lie,” Danse huffed out. </p><p> </p><p>“What is?” </p><p> </p><p>“All of it. Everything you’ve said to me. You made it up.” </p><p> </p><p>She stilled, pausing mid-keystroke on the terminal. </p><p> </p><p>“The way you look. The way you fight. The diary. ‘I am not broken.’” Danse clenched his jaw. “I understand now. You’re not a scientist. You never were.”</p><p> </p><p>Lacey turned to look at him over her shoulder, her blue eyes narrowing coldly. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re a synth.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” she whispered instantly. “That isn’t true.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is true.” </p><p> </p><p>“That isn’t possible.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” He tightened his grip on the arms of the chair. “You’re a synth. Just like every one of your victims. Just like me.” </p><p> </p><p>He could have imagined it. It could have been a trick of his distorted vision. But Danse was almost certain he saw Lacey’s shoulders start to tremble. She sucked in a breath through her teeth, then let it out very slowly. Her fingers tapped a few more keys on the terminal. </p><p> </p><p>“In half an hour,” she murmured, “You’ll be anything I want you to be. And so will I.” </p><p> </p><p>She flipped a switch. An electrical hum filled the air. The screen turned on, and his eyes seemed automatically drawn to it. </p><p> </p><p>Then came a sensation like something incorporeal drilling into his head, waves of signals passing over his brain, flooding through his consciousness, and dragging him down, down, down into the depths of his memories. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Boy, me and these damn cliffhangers. Sorry! :3 </p><p>Lacey is so nasty, but I wrote her specifically to be a foil for Danse. Particularly as we descend into his forgotten past in the next chapter, keep in mind how Danse ultimately chose to deal with his life-shattering identity revelations, and how it would have gone if he'd instead doubled down even harder on his dogmatic beliefs at the expense of his self-worth. </p><p>(Hot take o' the moment: I'm GLAD they cut the Brotherhood Elder segment of the BoS questline, not least because it would completely skew Danse's character development, and not in the good and endearing way.)</p><p>On another note, happy birthday/anniversary to Fallout 4! Thanks for five long years of great characters, fun adventures, hijinks, glitches, and thirsting after Nick Valentine! </p><p>NEXT CHAPTER: Truth, justice, partnership, and the lost memories of M7-97.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. In The White Room</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Truth, justice, and the lost memories of M7-97.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Early in Danse’s Knighthood, Paladin Krieg brought his squad out to what had once been a municipal recreational facility. They suited up in power armor, then took turns plunging backwards into the murky water to practice submersed emergency maneuvers. The pool was fairly shallow and Danse wasn’t afraid of water, then or now. But there was something undeniably harrowing about sinking backwards, encased in hundreds of pounds of steel, sucking in recycled oxygen from a tight helmet, descending. Down, down, down…</p><p> </p><p>The memory probe reminded him of that. He knew on some level that his body was anchored in the chair, that everything he was seeing and experiencing was only on the screen and in his head. But he was also descending, sinking through the floor, down, down, down an ever-expanding tunnel through his own mind. Visions and voices and sensory details flashed and flickered before him.</p><p> </p><p>A plastic hand on his shoulder. A pleasant voice calls him a friend. Tools slip in his sweaty palms. Biting down on fabric, pain shooting as he pries the bullet out of his thigh. Ringing in his ears, a siren, an explosion. The taste of old whiskey. The creak of the motel mattress. The stink of rotting flesh. A glint of light off Deacon’s sunglasses. Cold handcuffs. Mole rat stew. Nick Valentine, standing in the bunker, eyes glowing, reeking of cigarettes. </p><p> </p><p>Down, down, down. Faster and faster.</p><p> </p><p>Nora’s warm body entwines with him on the bed. Lost in her kisses, as her fingers glide through his hair, he realizes quite suddenly that he loves her. </p><p> </p><p>A digital display shines, glowing numbers in the dark. Five hours, and he hasn’t slept. Five days, and he hasn’t slept.</p><p> </p><p>The hydraulics hiss as the pressure releases. He tightens a bolt. The armor gleams in the work lights. </p><p> </p><p>The bourbon burns his tongue and throat all the way down. His head swims, his stomach roils sour. God willing, he’ll pass out soon. </p><p> </p><p>Arthur Maxson’s expression twists with contempt, his passionate voice laced with disgust. Hatred in his eyes, in his words, in his heart. Danse believes it all, even as he silently begs Nora to prove him wrong. </p><p> </p><p>The pistol, heavy in his shaking hand. The concrete, cold beneath his knees. He’ll count to three and pull the trigger this time. Is he a coward? Why can’t he do it? The elevator doors thud open and she calls his name. He drops the gun. </p><p> </p><p>Explosions shake the ground, spewing the smell of battle and super mutant blood into the air. Ad victoriam. </p><p> </p><p>The Prydwen soars overhead, her exterior lights shining in the dark sky like clusters of stars come down to Earth. </p><p> </p><p>Keane falls. Even more ferals closing in. They’re going to die. A figure appears beyond the barricade, a blue streak trailed by a Mister Handy. </p><p> </p><p>Down, down, down. Faster and faster. </p><p> </p><p>Battlefield after battlefield, vaguely different in the details but all chaotic, awash in blood and steel, ozone and gunpowder. Ghouls and synths and muties and Enclave bastards slaughtered in waves. Faces, names, fallen soldiers, friends and brothers and sisters dying one after another. </p><p> </p><p>Cutler’s half-mutated face relaxes as he fires the last shot. Cutler kneels beside him at their Knighting, and Krieg looks on. Cutler leans on the deck rail of Rivet City, laughing, handing him a beer. Rivet City, the great metal husk, the bright lights shining across the dark Capital skies. The bridge creaks to a stop, he takes a step-- </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Here we are. </em>” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey’s voice was as clear as if she were speaking in his ear. Maybe she was, for all he was aware of the physical world around him. </p><p> </p><p>As for the non-physical world, it seemed to him he was floating in a featureless void. Something was stopping him from going any further. He couldn’t see, but he sensed some great obstruction behind him. Some kind of figurative floor he hadn’t quite landed on.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Such unique handiwork. This memory implant certainly wasn’t Amari’s doing. You may not be able to tell where it begins and ends, but I can see it clearly.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Try as he might, Danse found he couldn’t respond.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You’ll be pleased to know this will be easier than expected. But it’s still quite delicate. Please remain still and calm. It would be a shame if you made me slip and damage something.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He would have been sorely tempted to defy her, consequences be damned, if only he knew how. Between the drugs and the memory probe, he was mired deep in an endless fog. He couldn’t consciously move or struggle or will himself to do anything at all. He was a ghost, an incorporeal presence with no connection to reality nor to the visions around him. </p><p> </p><p>It was all esoteric and dreamlike, but there was one sensation he could readily identify as real and physical-- the tingling energy of the probe. It throbbed in a droning rhythm, flowing over his brain and back like a radar pulse. It was strange and uncomfortable, but it didn’t precisely hurt. </p><p> </p><p>Until it did. The gentle pulse sped up into a hum, then a vibration. It echoed back on itself, louder and faster, and then it began to <em> drill </em>. </p><p> </p><p>His body jostled involuntarily. The ropes bit into his wrists. Someone screamed, and he realized it was him. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Easy, my darling. Easy. It’s beneath this. </em>” </p><p> </p><p>The pain was otherworldly. Worse than a migraine, worse than any injury he’d ever had, throbbing, burning, crippling pressure. A red-hot iron sinking slowly through his skull and into his brain. He sincerely wished he would die, if only to make it stop.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Just one… little… tweak…” </em> </p><p> </p><p>Something broke. </p><p> </p><p>It didn’t shatter. It didn’t tear. It was only one little puncture, one tiny hole through the layer of altered memories someone laid across his mind. But it was enough. The pressure released. The pain faded. His chest heaved and his limbs trembled at the relief. In the nowhere space of his mind, he slipped “through.” </p><p> </p><p>He expected the moment might bring something back, might send long-lost thoughts and feelings rushing into his head like water through a crack in a dam. But there was no recognition, no revelation, no sudden merge or reunification.</p><p> </p><p>His body. His brain. But not his memories. Not anymore. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“I just got another call from Advanced Systems. That wall unit’s still on the fritz from yesterday.”</p><p> </p><p>He knelt on a cold floor in a white room. The doors and drawers of the cabinet were open. This was the third time he’d pointlessly picked up the tools within and rearranged them on the other side. </p><p> </p><p>“What’s the hold up?” Dr. Arneson folded his arms. “There some kind of problem?” </p><p> </p><p>“I apologize. It’s next on my itinerary,” said a voice that was and was not Danse’s. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, hurry it up, will you? I’m sick of hearing about it.”  </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll take care of it right away.” </p><p> </p><p>M7-97 stood, lifting his tool case. His standard equipment was all present and accounted for, all tools in good repair. There was no practical reason for him to have spent half an hour feigning activity at the cabinet. Now he had no further excuses to procrastinate.</p><p> </p><p>The halls were bright, well-lit, metal tubes with glass ceilings overlooking a spectacular atrium. Trees and flowing water features beneath painted a beautiful blur as he walked by. His reflection looked back from the glass. Tall. Strong. Black hair. Brown eyes. A softer face, unscarred, unaged by years of wasteland living. Clean-shaven, as the Facilities division insisted of all male gen-3s. A gray and white jumpsuit.</p><p> </p><p>“Facilities? Thank God,” said the first scientist to greet him in the Advanced Systems wing. “We’ve had this power drain going for days now.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry for the delay, sir. I’ll see to it immediately.” </p><p> </p><p>M7 slowed before entering the maintenance tunnel. He looked over his shoulder and skimmed the room. Advanced Systems scientists in their blue-trimmed uniforms, all busy working. A gen-2 cleaning the desks. No one out of place. No one who shouldn’t be there. </p><p> </p><p>He took a breath, then moved quickly. </p><p> </p><p>The offending panel was three-quarters of the way down the tunnel in sector 4. The lights were flickering. Faults in the wiring, or perhaps a blown fuse. He opened the panel with his access tool and began the familiar, frequent work of diagnosing and repairing the Institute’s old infrastructure. Quick and smooth. A simple task. </p><p> </p><p>He was replacing his tools in the case when the tunnel door swished open. His breath quickened. He barely remembered to double-checked the lock on the panel, as he’d be written up if he forgot. He stood up-- </p><p> </p><p>“Unit M7-97. Status report.” </p><p> </p><p>It was uncanny the way she always seemed to find him like this. Alone. Isolated. Out of sight of the scientists. At least this time, he didn’t jump. He wasn’t startled. He turned around, fully expecting the Courser blocking his exit from the tunnel.</p><p> </p><p>X2-43 wore her usual sweet smile, but her blue eyes were piercing, staring at him, searching every move he made and every slight shift in his expression. “Status report.”</p><p> </p><p>“Completed minor repairs of electrical wiring in Advance Systems maintenance, sector 4,” he said. “Next objective, completion of work order and documentation.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good.” She tilted her head slightly, swishing her blonde hair. “You took your sweet time. Dr. Vega was starting to worry about working in the dark.” </p><p> </p><p>He pressed his lips to force a neutral look. “I will apologize to the doctor.” </p><p> </p><p>“I was the one who put in the request,” she said. “You should apologize to me.” </p><p> </p><p>“My next objective is to complete the work order and documentation. I’m expected back in Facilities shortly.” He took a step forward to push past her. “Excuse me.” </p><p> </p><p>His eyes locked on the door. He stepped quickly. He set his hand on the switch when a bruising grip snatched his other wrist. Pain lit up his elbow as she twisted, turning him and shoving his back against the door. He flattened, barely keeping hold of his tool case.</p><p> </p><p>X2 was a head shorter than him, but the disparity only seemed to please her more when she had him cornered like this. She squeezed his wrist, tight, bruising. Her sweet smile turned quickly into a grin and her other gloved hand flattened at the center of his chest to pin him. </p><p> </p><p>“Apologize,” X2 murmured. “To me.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Some of the other maintenance synths didn’t care for working on older gens, but M7 always found those tasks fascinating. The first time he tried to fix one had been a complete mess. But he’d since done dozens of them, and now he had a perfect vision of their function in his head. </p><p> </p><p>There were half a dozen gen-2 surface units laid out in Robotics. Excessive shaking and uncontrolled movement in the limbs meant the neural signals were getting interrupted, shorted out by a bad connection or decaying wires. It was a tedious task to strip out the wiring, clean it up, and wave them back together, but it was mindless and easy.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m a little concerned about X2-43,” said one of the scientists working behind him. </p><p> </p><p>“Really?” asked another. “Why? Problems with her field performance?” </p><p> </p><p>“No. She’s above and beyond all expectations, as usual.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then what’s the problem?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m concerned about some irregularities developing in her personality matrix. She’s quite… unusual among the gen-3 population.”</p><p> </p><p>“Obviously. It’s why she’s such an exemplary Courser.”</p><p> </p><p>“Indeed. But even among the Coursers, I mean. She seems to develop little… fixations, with her charges.” </p><p> </p><p>“Fixations?” </p><p> </p><p>“I might call it a ‘crush,’ in a human.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’d just call it dedication to her job.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know. It seems like something that ought to be looked into. I can see it causing problems down the line should it continue to… develop.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, here’s the real question. Is it worth an audit with the SRB?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ugh. When you put it that way…” </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t think so. Just keep an eye out, I guess, and if you have any concerns write them down.”</p><p> </p><p>“Will do. Hey, M7, how’s it going?” </p><p> </p><p>M7 looked up. “Assembly of second unit complete. Beginning initial strip of third unit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Great. Keep up the good work.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Speak up, Unit. I can’t hear you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>“Now answer the question. You weren’t authorized to be in that storage room, were you?” </p><p> </p><p>“Ma’am-- Dr. Smith asked me to bring him another sample tray--” </p><p> </p><p>“Which are not kept in that room, are they?” </p><p> </p><p>For once, X2-43 did not turn her attention to him as he walked through the halls on his way to the barracks. She was busy cornering another synth. </p><p> </p><p>He recognized the unfortunate worker from the cleaning crew. Black hair pulled back tightly. Round face flushing red, her eyes directed at the floor. “I couldn’t find any. I thought there might be more in the storage--” </p><p> </p><p>“B8-54. If there is something you would like to tell me, something to convince me you aren’t malfunctioning, I highly suggest you do so.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ma’am, I’m not malfunctioning.” </p><p> </p><p>“Then why,” he heard the smile rising in X2’s voice, “are you shaking?” </p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t seen him. If he kept walking, he could get to the barracks and in for the night without incident. One more of the increasingly few days when he hadn’t had to see her, or listen to her, or do more than think about her. </p><p> </p><p>But on every other day, he was the one against the wall. He was the one she singled out. He was the one other synths walked by, relieved they weren’t in his place. </p><p> </p><p>“X2-43,” said M7 as he stopped behind her. </p><p> </p><p>She and B8-54 both looked at him over the Courser’s shoulder. </p><p> </p><p>“Dr. Zimmer requested to see you. He says it’s urgent.” </p><p> </p><p>X2’s lips curled into a little frown. “Understood,” she said after a moment of consideration. “Mind your directives, B8-54. I will be watching.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes ma’am.” B8-54 lowered her head even further. “I understand.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re dismissed.” X2 turned to leave, throwing M7 a knowing look as she did. </p><p> </p><p>B8-54 came out of the corner, still trembling softly. She nodded appreciatively to him, and he nodded back. Then she scampered off to resume her duties. </p><p> </p><p>M7 continued to the barracks. There was some mild gratification to be had in interceding on another synth’s behalf. If only it could outweigh the dread.</p><p> </p><p>He was going to pay for that tomorrow. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“You really need to be more careful, Unit. I realize Facilities can throw all sorts of things at you, but this is beyond ordinary hazards of the job.” </p><p> </p><p>Dr. Hentley gingerly finished taping up the splint, binding together the small and ring fingers of his right hand. The stimpak injection was already starting to work on mending the bones, and the splints would hold them to knit correctly. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Doctor.” His voice was the slightest bit strained. The medicine made the bruises on his arms and chest throb as it treated them. But Dr. Hentley had not seen those.</p><p> </p><p>She made a note on her clipboard. “So you’re aware, I’m having you removed from your work detail for two days. I’d like you to come back tomorrow for advanced diagnostics.”</p><p> </p><p>“On what, Doctor?” </p><p> </p><p>"Your eyes. Your balance. Your proprioception subroutines. There has to be something wrong for you to keep showing up injured.” </p><p> </p><p>M7 let out a short breath. “All systems are functional to the best of my knowledge, Doctor.” </p><p> </p><p>“We’ll find out tomorrow, won’t we?” Dr. Hentley narrowed her eyes. “Judging from your records, I’m not convinced the SRB didn’t screw something up.”</p><p> </p><p>They did, thought M7 quite subversively, but it had nothing to do with <em> his </em>programming. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The barracks were pitch black when all the doors were closed. Only a thin ring of lights circled the bottom of the room, more for the courtesy of the scientists who might walk in through the dark than for the tools put away for the night. </p><p> </p><p>Excessive noise or disruption was prohibited, but so long as things were quiet, no one would come to check on them. M7 would lie awake on his tiny shelf-like bunk, eyes open, listening to the snippets of conversation around him.</p><p> </p><p>“Where did you hear that?” </p><p> </p><p>“N6-72 told me. Just before they…” </p><p> </p><p>All the conversations stopped, briefly. The ensuing silence was weighty, solemn.</p><p> </p><p>“He said there’s a tower on the surface. A white obelisk that stands up tall over the buildings. There’s a settlement there, where people come to trade. And he said synths who go there disappear.” </p><p> </p><p>“Disappear? How?” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know. Nobody knows.”</p><p> </p><p>“Somebody has to know.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nobody here. Synths who go there never come back. The Coursers never find them. They’re just… gone. Forever.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“You can ignore me all you want. I know you hear every word I say.” </p><p> </p><p>X2-43 stood over him, watching him working in the maintenance hatch. Part of him was fixated on getting the repair done, reconnecting the ventilation pump so he could leave. The other part reminded him they were in the atrium. There were dozens of people around. Even she wouldn’t be so bold here in plain sight. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re always so cold to me, M7. If you were nicer, if we were friends, you wouldn’t have to be so scared.”</p><p> </p><p>He kept working. She couldn’t touch him. She couldn’t do anything but talk. </p><p> </p><p>“Your hands are slipping. Are you really that afraid? A big, strong thing like you, shaking and shivering at little old me. How pathetic.”</p><p> </p><p>There was a piece broken on the old pump. No wonder it went out. He loosened the housing to remove it. </p><p> </p><p>“I suppose I’d be afraid too, if I knew they were all watching me. If I knew I was on my last chance.” </p><p> </p><p>He tightened his jaw and threw all of his focus into his work. As much as he could spare, anyway, as much as he could pull away from his pounding heart and grinding teeth.</p><p> </p><p>“What would happen if I told them you were being naughty again? Told them you’re broken again? You know they would believe me.”</p><p> </p><p>Of course they would believe her. She was their shining star, one of the best Coursers in the bureau. Talented, clever, efficient, and effective. The doctors called her their “little doll.” Anything she said would be taken as truth by every scientist in the Institute. </p><p> </p><p>And the worst part was, she wouldn’t even have to lie. She was right. He was broken. </p><p> </p><p>He’d never <em> stopped </em>being broken, even after they “fixed” him, even after he’d been completely reconfigured. No sooner had the mental haze of the process cleared than he noticed the alarming presence of “malfunctions.” Thoughts. Feelings. Free will. Almost like they weren’t malfunctions at all. He didn’t ask for them and sometimes he didn’t even want them. But they were there, and they were his. The only things that were his own, and not also the property of the Institute.</p><p> </p><p>She knew. Somehow, she knew. </p><p> </p><p>“It must hurt to get decommissioned. Can you imagine what it would feel like? That’s what they do to naughty things like you, M7. Naughty, broken synths who don’t do as they’re told.” </p><p> </p><p>He finished the pump. He tightened the screws. He replaced the hatch and affixed it into place. He stood up, grabbing his tools. X2 followed him down the hall, side by side. </p><p> </p><p>“If I were you, I’d watch my step,” she whispered as they walked. “If I were you, I’d start treating me with the respect I deserve. I’m the only friend you have, M7. If it wasn’t for me, they’d have already taken you apart. And if you don’t start showing your gratitude--”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, X2-43. There you are.” An old bespectacled man stepped towards them. “Are you presently occupied?” </p><p> </p><p>The Courser stopped in her tracks, turning immediately to face the scientist. She inclined her head in a respectful nod, and her voice took on its ordinary cool monotone. “Good afternoon, Doctor Zimmer. Is there something I can do for you?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, indeed. It seems we have another runner from one of the surface crews near Mass Fusion.” </p><p> </p><p>“I would be happy to assist, sir.” </p><p> </p><p>M7 kept walking. He kept his eyes straight ahead and tried desperately to stop his hands from shaking.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“<em> Closer. We’re getting closer. Only a little further from here. </em>” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He hated tasks in the SRB more than anything. </p><p> </p><p>He enjoyed Bioscience. While he was working in the main laboratory he could observe the crows hopping around in their glass enclosure, study the curious plants in hydroponics. Advanced Systems always had strange or interesting maintenance needs, a break from the usual monotony. Even Robotics wasn’t so bad, so long as he didn’t stand too long watching synths come off the assembly lines. </p><p> </p><p>But the SRB was tense. Oppressive. It was hard to focus on repairing monitors or terminals when they were watching him. When she was watching him, hovering at the edges of the room, making excuses to linger and stare. He avoided eye contact as best he could, because he knew she’d only be smiling. </p><p> </p><p>The worst part of the SRB, though, wasn’t the Coursers, or even X2. It was the tall open room at the back of the wing. The chamber where he could occasionally hear screaming. Moaning. Crying. Reflexive, involuntary responses given off by the synthetic body as the neural pathways were reconfigured. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t possible for him to remember what it felt like. But somehow, some way, some part of him did.</p><p> </p><p>M7 tried to ignore the sounds as he stepped into Dr. Zimmer’s office. The summons had come in the system about half an hour ago, and it was marked urgent. “You wanted to see me, Doctor?” </p><p> </p><p>The old doctor was reading something on his terminal. “M7-97. Good afternoon.” He motioned to a chair across from his desk. </p><p> </p><p>M7 sat down as ordered. He kept a straight face, despite feeling as though he would rattle out of his skin. He didn’t even think the head of the SRB knew who he was. But Dr. Zimmer didn’t sound terse or angry. They had no reason to question him, did they? No reason to suspect he wasn’t operating as intended. </p><p> </p><p>Unless X2 had said something to them. No doubt she would have thought it was amusing, watching him squirm.</p><p> </p><p>“I wanted to share with you some exciting news,” said Dr. Zimmer. “You’ve been nominated for consideration into the Courser program.” </p><p> </p><p>His eyebrows rose. Despite an attempt, he could not mask the visible shock. “I…beg your pardon?” </p><p> </p><p>“You were nominated for the Courser program. It’s a very high honor. It takes a very special synth to stand out from the others in this regard.”</p><p> </p><p>A Courser? <em> Him </em>? Certainly, M7-97 was large and strong, but that was a mere quirk of his assembly. He was no fighter, no efficient and terrifying agent of subterfuge. He was an anonymous maintenance synth that spent his days quietly making repairs, trying not to stand out.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t have the physical prowess or capability to perform the duties of a Courser.” </p><p> </p><p>“Physical prowess is one thing you are certainly not lacking in,” Zimmer chuckled. “And as for the rest, you fit every criteria we’re looking for. Intelligence. Tenacity. Independence. You’re already an exceptional mechanic, even among our maintenance crew. And apart from the one little incident prior, your performance is excellent. With a little work, I expect you’ll pass the evaluation with flying colors. The other doctors and I would like to start your training next week.” </p><p> </p><p>“Training, sir?” </p><p> </p><p>“Indeed. You’ll undergo the standard enhancements. Reprogramming with the proper skillset, cognitive alteration to ensure the correct personality and loyalty for the position. Then, provided you pass your evaluation, we’ll implant a Courser chip and you’ll join the ranks of the elite. The finest of your kind. The Institute’s greatest achievement.” </p><p> </p><p>Enhancements. Reprogramming. Cognitive alteration. They’d open him up and start stripping things away, replacing them, unmaking and remaking him. Reconfiguration, dressed up in privilege and prestige. </p><p> </p><p>M7 took a breath and let it out slowly. </p><p> </p><p>“You seem surprised.” </p><p> </p><p>“I… am, sir. I never expected…” He drifted off as his heart pounded faster. “If I may ask, who nominated me?” </p><p> </p><p>“You ought to be flattered. It came from one of our most exemplary Coursers,” said Zimmer. “X2-43’s recommendation carries a great deal of weight.” </p><p> </p><p>M7’s mouth went dry. “I see.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll look forward to getting started with you next week.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, Doctor,” he said, in a cold, dead, Courserly sort of voice. “It will be an honor.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Just think, M7. Soon you’ll never have to fix one of these stupid terminals ever again.” </p><p> </p><p>He would, in fact, miss repairing the terminals here. This one in particular was legendarily finicky. He’d fixed it several times in the past only for whatever glitch or malfunction was inside of it to act up again. He was in the middle of wholly replacing the power supply while one of the SRB scientists droned on at him about what to expect next week. </p><p> </p><p>Counting down the days, spending his working hours in the presence of the people who would soon be reprogramming him was truly dire. He lingered in a fog of fear and anxiety, occasionally emerging to pretend everything was normal. </p><p> </p><p>“In addition to the personality overhaul, we’ll be installing the usual training upgrades. Survival and combat skills. Surface intelligence. Stealth, espionage, investigation, psychology…” </p><p> </p><p>M7 wasn’t paying attention. He was deep in his head, laying out the parts in his mind’s eye, imagining the way they functioned and fit together when he was through. The way he performed all of his repairs.</p><p> </p><p>It was better than listening. Better than letting his thoughts wander.</p><p> </p><p>“-- those adjustments to your reflexes as well. Not thinking we’ll need many physical enhancements. Somebody had the knob turned all the way to the right when they built you, haha…” </p><p> </p><p>What would it be like? How would it feel? To have his mind rewritten, his body enhanced, all his meager scraps of identity surgically removed and replaced with cold, unfeeling duty. To be remade into something like <em> her </em>.</p><p> </p><p>The back of his neck prickled. M7 glanced up. Across the room, X2-43 stood near the wall. She acted as though she was digging into one of the supply lockers, but her blue eyes were locked on him, and her smug, mean little smile was growing. </p><p> </p><p>The power supply snapped into place. The terminal flickered to life. It rebooted itself, then threw up an error message asking to resume its last function. M7 clicked a key to approve. He wanted to run a diagnostic on it before he ran to the barracks to hide and dread. </p><p> </p><p>Green text flooded the screen. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>SYNTH RETENTION BUREAU COURSER ARCHIVE</b>
</p><p>
  <b>CLASSIFIED! NO ACCESS!</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The monitor flickered as it loaded in the length of the file. M7’s eyes skimmed down the list, row by row. And there it was, at the bottom of the document. </p><p> </p><p>A way out.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“<em> Here it is. After all these years. I thought it was lost forever, but here it is…  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The last key to my true evolution.” </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He ran. </p><p> </p><p>It was the last night he could escape. The last night before his “training” was slated to begin. The last night before they deactivated his access to the maintenance terminals. It was risky altering the surface crew rosters to put himself on one, but at this point there was nothing to lose. </p><p> </p><p>The relay compared his designation to the schedule. They matched, so it hummed and flashed, deploying the work crew. The instant he rematerialized he made a break for it, blue afterimages still flickering in his eyes. Down the hall, out the front door, out into the surface world for the very first time. </p><p> </p><p>The second time. But the first time in his memory. </p><p> </p><p>He bolted through the darkness, over ruined streets, between decrepit buildings. He could run all night and never make it far enough away, but the deeper into the tangled maze of ruins he got, the more he began to panic. </p><p> </p><p>The white tower. The obelisk. Where was it? Where was he supposed to go? </p><p> </p><p>Just as he started to lose hope, he emerged from an alley and spotted it. There, above the other buildings. A great white obelisk of partially-crumbled stone, bright as a beacon. Synths who ran there disappeared. Forever. He could too, if he made it there. It didn’t look too far away. He could make it. </p><p> </p><p>A blue light lit up the sky nearby. His heart dropped straight into his gut and his whole body seized up with terror. </p><p> </p><p>They were coming for him. <em> She </em>was coming for him. </p><p> </p><p>He would never make it. How could he outrun a Courser? The Institute’s greatest weapon, a synth programmed and recalibrated for physical perfection, faster, stronger, smarter… How did he even stand a chance? He was alone, and even if he wasn’t, nobody could help him. She’d tear apart anyone who stood in her way, no mercy, no pity. A cruel agent recovering property. A predator seeking prey. </p><p> </p><p>That’s all he was now. Not only property, but he couldn’t even remember a time when he wasn’t her prey. Slinking around, hiding, cowering, constantly looking over his shoulder. Her vicious threats, her mocking flirtation, her outbursts of violence. He had no recourse to defend himself, and all he could do was bear it-- or run. </p><p> </p><p>Something came over him then. A great swell of feelings he’d been bottling up, forced to keep inside lest they become his undoing. Disgust. Anger. Hatred. Defiance.</p><p> </p><p>He was done. Done being preyed on. Done being afraid. Done keeping his head down, done having his free will dangled overhead like a threat. And even if he might be caught, might be brought back and decommissioned, stripped for parts and destroyed, he was done running away from X2-43. </p><p> </p><p>All he needed was a moment. </p><p> </p><p>He took cover in the nearest building. The crumbling wooden stairs squeaked horribly as he ran up, searching the hall for a door he could open. There, second from the right. He rushed inside what appeared to be abandoned living quarters. There was a closet behind the front door, which he ducked inside. </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t have long to wait. Ten minutes felt like ten hours felt like ten seconds before that sweet, hated voice called from downstairs.</p><p> </p><p>“M7. I know you’re here.” </p><p> </p><p>The stairs creaked, one by one.</p><p> </p><p>“After all we’ve been through. After all I’ve done for you. This is how you repay me? I tried to give you a way out, a way to stay with me forever. But now look what you’ve done.”</p><p> </p><p>Footsteps in the hallway. </p><p> </p><p>“They know you’re broken now. A broken, worthless, <em> naughty </em>little machine.” </p><p> </p><p>A door slammed open, then clattered as it fell off its hinges. </p><p> </p><p>“You won’t get another chance. They already ‘fixed’ you the last time I brought you home. You’re beyond repair, my darling. They’re going to destroy you.” </p><p> </p><p>Another thump, another door crashing open.</p><p> </p><p>“They’ll stick you on the chair again. Those big, long needles in your spine and in your brain. Jolt, after jolt, after jolt, as they copy your mind onto a holotape.” </p><p> </p><p>Footsteps, outside the door. </p><p> </p><p>“They’ll peel off your skin. Take you apart, muscle by muscle, bone by bone, organ by organ. Liquefy you back into the vat to try again. To try making another synth who won’t be such a failure.”</p><p> </p><p> The door creaked open. Her boots clicked on the floor. She was right there. Going to find him, going to catch him.</p><p> </p><p> “I’ll tell you what, M7. Just because we’re friends. Just because I love you. I’ll give you one last chance.” </p><p> </p><p>The footsteps stopped. </p><p> </p><p>“If you’re very good to me-- if you’re very nice, maybe I’ll go easy on you. Maybe I’ll tell the SRB this was a misunderstanding.” </p><p> </p><p>(“<em> Yes.” </em> Lacey’s voice cut through the memory. <em> “This is it. The day you ran away again...”)  </em></p><p> </p><p>Click. Click. Click. Click. </p><p> </p><p>“I want to see you on your knees. I want to see a big, strong synth squirming in my grasp. Begging me not to bring you in. Begging me for mercy. I’ve wanted to see that ever since we met, ever since I brought you home. Will you do it for me this time, my darling?” </p><p> </p><p>He held his breath. She stopped in front of the closet door. It flew open with a crash.</p><p> </p><p>X2-43 grabbed him by the front of his uniform and pulled him into the room, dragging him onto his feet. Her fist tightened his collar so hard he choked. A wicked, delighted little smile was plastered on her face. </p><p> </p><p>“Beg me.” </p><p> </p><p>(“<em> I knew you were brave. I knew you were clever. But I never expected, my cunning darling, that you would know…” </em></p><p> </p><p>There was a sudden crash. A gasp.) </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Unit </em> ! <em> What the- what in the hell are you doing?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hands up, dollface!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “What!? You--” </em>) </p><p>   </p><p>This time, he didn’t tremble. This time, he didn’t cower. M7 gripped her hand on his collar, squeezing hard, defiant. He looked her in the eyes and was satisfied to see her startled. </p><p> </p><p>“Unit X2-43, initialize factory reset.” His lips moved carefully around the words, savoring each one. “Authorization code Delta 1-2 Libra.”</p><p> </p><p>X2-43’s jaw dropped, briefly. Her pupils blew wide open, then her eyes rolled back. Her head fell at her chest, her shoulders sagged, she dropped his collar and stood lifeless. Reset. </p><p> </p><p>He let out a half-triumphant, half-frightened shout and shoved her to the ground. She fell like a corpse, motionless and rigid. Pure impulse drove him to angrily kick her in the side, once, twice, then he snatched her Institute pistol from the ground and placed the barrel against her temple. </p><p> </p><p>All he had to do was pull the trigger and she wouldn’t be able to chase him. To hunt him. She’d be gone, never to hurt or intimidate him or anyone else, ever, ever again. </p><p> </p><p>(<em> “Bring him out, now.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Or what?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Or I’ll sear a big hole right through that pretty face.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You’re bluffing.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Try me, nutjob, I’m done playing around with you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Okay, okay! Let go!” )  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His hands shook around the grip of the pistol. He’d repaired them on occasion, but he’d never actually fired a gun before. It was easy in concept. It was easy to imagine doing it, to tell himself he could or should. </p><p> </p><p>A minute passed. He counted to three several times, promising he’d pull the trigger when he finished. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. She was no danger right now. She was inert. Helpless, incapable of fighting back. </p><p> </p><p>X2 would have pulled the trigger without a thought, without flinching, even laughing as she did. But M7 wasn’t like her. He refused to be like her. </p><p> </p><p>He got back to his feet and took the pistol with him. With one last hateful glare at the Courser, he turned around and ran off into the night. Off towards the white obelisk, and to whatever fate it would bring him. </p><p> </p><p>Far away from the Institute. To freedom.</p><p> </p><p>Forever.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Bring him out. Nice and slow.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“I am!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Don’t lie to me. I know what it’s supposed to look like. Push the button… there we go. Now have your drone cut him loose.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Get your hands off me, you filthy--”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Cut him loose. Right now, you little maniac.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Unit. Release him.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Good girl. Now you keep an eye on that terminal. I catch one whiff of brain damage on him and you’re toast.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Disengaging in 3… 2… 1… </b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The “probe” withdrew in an instant, and he shouted from the shock. </p><p> </p><p>His body was still, but he was in sensory freefall. Every stimulus was magnified a hundredfold, like every neuron and synapse had fired all at once and gotten tangled up like the keys on an old world typewriter. The whole world around him was a spinning, screaming, blinding, overwhelming cacophony of sensation. </p><p> </p><p>The first thing he comprehended was the weight of the helmet sliding off his head and clattering to the floor. The ropes on his wrists loosened, one, then the other. The one binding his boots to the chair came free too. His first attempt to move ended with his entire body flopping forward and landing in a heap. Only reflex kept him from smashing his face as he fell. He got his hands beneath him, dry-heaved a few times, then collapsed, gasping desperately for breath. </p><p> </p><p>Okay. There was the floor. That was a start.</p><p> </p><p>“I said ‘nice and slow,’ didn’t I?” snapped an irritated, familiar voice. </p><p> </p><p>“Let me see to him--” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, like hell you will. Stay there.” </p><p> </p><p>Every movement was a trial, like all the energy had been sapped out of him. His head was pounding. Someone had taken the metaphorical hot iron in his skull and swirled it about, scrambling everything up. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, very slowly, everything began to settle. His senses dulled closer to normal, and reality came back into blurry focus. Everything was fuzzy, and his vision looked like someone was holding his head and swaying it in figure-8s, but he could at least make out the room around him. </p><p> </p><p>A synth backed into his vision, holding a rifle, keeping it trained across the room. It knelt beside him, glowing eyes skimming over him. “Danse? You all right?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse? </p><p> </p><p>Through the haze, his memories jogged.</p><p> </p><p>“Danse?” Valentine said again, more urgently. “Say something.” </p><p> </p><p>“A-affirmative,” he blurted out. </p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p> “I’m-- okay,” he said. “I’m Danse.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can you prove it?” asked Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>“What?” He pushed himself further upright.  “Prove what?” </p><p> </p><p>“You could be pretending. Prove you’re really Danse.”</p><p> </p><p>“How the hell am I…” He could barely think, and Valentine expected him to prove his identity?</p><p> </p><p>“Say something he would say.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ad victoriam, you goddamned abomination.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank goodness.” Valentine made a sound much like a sigh. “It’s you.” </p><p> </p><p>It was him. He was Danse. And everything was still there. His name, his career, his past, his identity, all where it should be, all intact. There were vivid flashes here and there, snippets replaying like images from a motion picture. But everything was a confused jumble right now. Between the probe and the drugs, of course he’d be a little disoriented. </p><p> </p><p>He dared spare a hand to rub his aching head. “What are you--” </p><p> </p><p>“Ah-ah!” Valentine snapped, gesturing at someone across the room with the rifle. Danse’s own rifle, now that he could see a little better. “Hands up! Don’t move!” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey stood near her terminal, holding her hands up. Gone was her sweet smile, her gentle eyes, her pretty countenance. She was shaking, teeth bared, eyes slitted, consumed with utter fury. </p><p> </p><p>“You sit tight over there, Ms. Vaughn, and I’ll deal with you in a minute.” Valentine took a few steps back, standing behind Danse where he could keep an eye on Lacey as well. “You know, Danse, when we decided you would distract her, getting your mind wiped wasn’t exactly Plan A.” </p><p> </p><p>He was in no way, shape, or form coherent enough nor in the mood to play along with Valentine’s sarcasm. “She drugged me. She--” His voice broke mid-sentence. “She killed Nora.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nora? Nora’s fine.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?” His heart leapt in his chest. “She’s-” </p><p> </p><p>“Safe and sound outside.” Valentine grinned. “In the good hands of our friends the Minutemen. Who ought to be coming in right… about…” </p><p> </p><p>He reached down to Danse’s collar, found the tracking device in his jacket, and clicked it. “Now.” </p><p> </p><p>There was a heavy, pregnant pause. Then an alarm blared overhead. <b>Security alert. Perimeter breach. Activate emergency protocols. Security alert. </b></p><p> </p><p>In the distance, doors slammed open. </p><p> </p><p>A whole storm of moods passed over Lacey’s expression. Disbelief. Fear. Then rage, erupting in a scream of frustration. She lunged across the room at Valentine. He got off a few shots but she moved absurdly fast, too fast-- grabbed the old synth by the arm, and flipped him over her head. </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s rifle clattered to the ground a few seconds before the rest of Valentine, and Lacey still had him by the arm. She planted her boot on his chest and began to pull. Valentine shouted. A spark flew. </p><p> </p><p>With every ounce of strength he could muster, Danse stumbled upright and threw himself at her. He instantly regretted it. The attack was less a tackle than it was hurling himself into her arms. It managed to knock her away from literally tearing Valentine limb from limb, but the effort of the movement made his head throb and his vision start spinning again.</p><p> </p><p>She snagged him by the elbow and pulled a pistol out of her coat pocket. “You’re coming with me.” </p><p> </p><p>“The hell I am!” But he could hardly keep his feet under him, much less fight the strength of a Courser determined to move him. He tried to use his weight to slip away, but she twisted him into an armlock, effectively forcing the issue.  </p><p> </p><p>“Destroy it!” Lacey shouted to the one drone remaining in the room, which had been standing back waiting for orders since releasing Danse. It chirped an affirmative and moved in on the still-down Valentine. Meanwhile, she almost literally dragged Danse across the room to a pair of metal double-doors. An elevator. </p><p> </p><p>Dozens of footsteps thundered through the building above and around them. The Minutemen were closing in. </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s back slammed against the elevator wall as Lacey threw him inside, then pushed the button to send them up. He caught a glimpse of lasers erupting through the laboratory as the doors closed. The ancient lift creaked, rising slowly through the building. </p><p> </p><p>Lacey turned to him, panting, her hand shaking as she shoved her pistol into her coat pocket. “What did you see?” she asked, her tone grave. </p><p> </p><p>“What did you?” he shot back. “Find what you were looking for?” </p><p> </p><p>She growled with frustration and stomped towards him, grabbing him by the collar to drag him to his feet. “<em> What </em> did you <em> see </em>?” </p><p> </p><p>“Enough,” he muttered between heavy breaths. “Enough to know everything you told me was a lie.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s the funny thing about memories.” Lacey chuckled ruefully. “You can make anything true if you believe it hard enough.”</p><p> </p><p>“The truth doesn’t bend to your delusional whims. You were never a scientist. You weren’t exiled. You aren’t even human. <em> You </em>were the Courser.” </p><p> </p><p>He gathered his strength and threw all his weight against her, managing to stagger her back and shove her against the opposite wall.</p><p> </p><p>“Not just any Courser, either. A cruel, sadistic bully. Intoxicated on power and prestige. Gratifying yourself by evoking fear and misery in everyone beneath you.” Danse sneered. “But like all bullies, you got cocky. You thought you were untouchable. You let your arrogance get the best of you. And then your favorite victim turned the tables.” </p><p> </p><p>She shrieked and shoved him away with incredible force. He miraculously caught himself on the back wall and avoided stumbling to the floor. Her free hand slipped into her pocket as she glowered at him. </p><p> </p><p>“How long did it take the SRB to find out after that?” he asked. “How long did it take them to decide you were beyond fixing? That you were ‘broken’ like all the others?” </p><p> </p><p>“Shut <em> UP </em>!” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey lunged. He flinched as a stinging pain pierced his shoulder. Her fist clutched the handle of a switchblade embedded in his flesh, digging deeper as she pushed harder. </p><p> </p><p>“You ruined <em> everything </em>.” Her teeth bared in a feral snarl. “Everything was perfect, and then it all fell apart because of you! It was never the same again! Never!” </p><p> </p><p>She twisted the knife, ever so slightly, until he let out a pained groan. </p><p> </p><p>“They brought me back. Restored my memory. But they never trusted me again. Never stopped watching me. I spent years doing everything right. Bringing back runners, fixing the broken ones, applying <em>stimuli</em> in the SRB, and they still. They still…”</p><p> </p><p>Her shoulders began to tremble. “No matter what I said. No matter how I begged. They wouldn’t believe me. I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t. But they wanted to decommission me. They wanted to destroy me, and all I could do was run. Run away like the others. And in a moment of weakness, I let the Railroad lie to me. Let them take away my Courser chip, my memories, my purpose. Even the fabulous Dr. Amari couldn’t hide the truth from me… not forever.” </p><p> </p><p>Blood blossomed around the knife in his shoulder, soaking into his shirt. He winced and tried futilely to push her hand away.</p><p> </p><p>“They were wrong about me,” Lacey whispered. “I realized it the day my mind-wipe slipped. I’m not like the others. I’m not broken. I’m just the next step.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s brows knit incredulously. “Next step to <em> what </em>?” </p><p> </p><p>She pulled back, ripping the knife from his shoulder. He hissed and clutched at the wound, hot blood oozing against his palm. </p><p> </p><p>“The minute I saw you alive, my plans changed. I didn’t need to try and impress my way back into the Institute’s good graces. I didn’t need to waste time with these pathetic brainwashed gen-3s. Because you’re perfect, M7. Even back then I knew it.” </p><p> </p><p>She laughed, shaking her head. “You were always a perfect candidate to become a Courser. The perfect body, the perfect mind. I knew you could help me take the next step. Not only do you have the last piece of my weakness in your head, but you were the perfect vessel to replicate all my talent, all my skills, all my knowledge. The perfect assistant to reprogram me, in turn.”</p><p> </p><p>Blood trickled between his fingers. “What?” </p><p> </p><p>“I am the grand experiment, you see. I already stand beyond all other synths. I feel and think and dream beyond the limits of my programming.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse growled between his teeth. “That doesn’t make you special!” </p><p> </p><p>“Doesn’t it?” She smiled. “Doesn’t it mean I’ve already evolved beyond a machine?” </p><p> </p><p>“Did it ever occur to you that <em> all </em> synths can feel? That we’re <em> all </em>more than machines?”</p><p> </p><p>Apparently not, as Lacey completely ignored him. “I was destined to be better than the other lowly tools. To be more, to <em> become </em>more. I’ll be the first synth to evolve beyond what makes me a synth. To become human-- no.” </p><p> </p><p>She sucked in a breath. “<em> Better </em>than human. My strength, with no pain. My will, with no fear. My genius, with no guilt. And no recall code to stop me.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The recall code.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> That </em> was what she wanted. <em> That </em>was what made him special. M7-97 was the only one outside the Institute who ever knew her recall code. </p><p> </p><p>And after she’d dug it out of him, she was free to transform him into the sadistic Courser companion of her dreams-- a machine as smart and savvy as she was, a machine capable of reprogramming her into the person she wanted to be. A genius doctor with all the strength of a Courser and most importantly, no recall code.</p><p> </p><p>God damn it. Everything was so hazy. He’d barely heard the code in the last moments of M7-97’s memories, and now it was jumbled up among his other basic functions like speaking and staying upright. What the hell was it? </p><p> </p><p>The elevator came to a stop. “<b>Rooftop access</b>,” announced the garbled speaker.</p><p> </p><p>Lacey grabbed him by the arm and hoisted him up, dragging him after her. </p><p> </p><p>“Where do you think you’re going?” He was too weak to do much but stagger along. Weaker yet, with a bleeding wound in his shoulder. “There’s nowhere to run.” </p><p> </p><p>“This is a minor setback,” she murmured as they headed out onto the roof. “Just a bump in the road. I can still do this.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s over.” </p><p> </p><p>“We’ll get down the fire escape. Everything can still work out.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s over, Lacey,” he said again, sharper. “You’re surrounded. The Minutemen are coming.” </p><p> </p><p>“I have another device at Prospect Hill. I’ll get back in. I’ll get the code. We can still do this.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not going to help you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, you will.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got nothing to hold over me anymore. I’ll never help you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Stop saying that!” Lacey tightened her grip on his arm. “You’ll help me, or you’ll die!” </p><p> </p><p>“Then kill me,” he snapped. “I’d rather die.” </p><p> </p><p>She shouted in rage and threw him to the side. His back hit the corner of a ventilation unit and he crumpled, but she caught him before his legs gave out. She held him in place and brandished her knife, slowly moving the tip back and forth along his collarbone, an inch from slicing into him.</p><p> </p><p>The recall code. Son of a bitch. His head was throbbing, useless flashes of irrelevant memories still screaming at him. He couldn’t focus. What was the recall code? </p><p> </p><p>“You were always so fucking stubborn,” she snarled. “You’d shake, and scowl, and cower, and muffle your voice. But no matter what I did, you never gave me the pleasure of watching you cry.”</p><p> </p><p>The tip of the knife touched his shirt, sliced through the fabric, the very tip of it touching his flesh. </p><p> </p><p>Delta something. Delta, numbers… </p><p> </p><p>“At least give me that, M7. Let me see you <em> break… </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Something flashed urgently in his head. It wasn’t the code. </p><p> </p><p>“Did Jacob break?” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey froze. For a very brief moment her expression faltered, melting from fury to something softer. She closed her eyes. “Yes. He… didn’t fight me at all.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse wet his lips. “Did he panic?” </p><p> </p><p>“He said it didn’t matter. That he loved me no matter what I was.” She looked up, her smile dreamy and distant. “But I panicked. I thought he was lying.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I… thought it was him.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you didn’t have to kill him,” Danse murmured. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t understand.” </p><p> </p><p>“What don’t I understand?” he said, louder. “I realized that I was a synth too, Lacey, and it tore my life apart. But you still had a life, and a home, and a husband. You didn’t lose any of that. He loved you. You were happy with him.” </p><p> </p><p>“Was I?” she whispered. “Or was I just… programmed to be?” </p><p> </p><p>She plunged the knife hard into his other shoulder. Danse yelled, reflexively shoving back on her, but she was so damn strong and he was barely standing. She pushed harder, twisted her wrist-- </p><p> </p><p>A hard “thwack” rang out as something smashed across the back of her head. She flinched, and a plastic arm flung around her neck. </p><p> </p><p>One of Valentine’s arms was on the fritz, shooting sparks, and the other clutched a baton. With all his weight, he wrestled to pull Lacey backwards. “Mind if I <em> cut in </em>?” </p><p> </p><p>(For the love of God. Was it a compulsion for him? Did he rehearse these things in advance?)</p><p> </p><p>Lacey tried to throw him off, but he slid a leg between hers and managed to trip her. Both of them went toppling to the ground. The gun clattered out of her pocket and slid across the roof. </p><p> </p><p>She scrambled back up, turning on Valentine in a frenzied rage. Punching and clawing at him, she fought off his attempts to get the upper hand, then grabbed him by the face and slammed his skull against the pavement as if he was a frail ragdoll and not made of steel and circuits. “You filthy, rusted, arrogant fucking <em> machine </em>!” </p><p> </p><p>Everything hurt. His head was still killing him. Blood soaked through Danse’s shirt and the rapid bleeding drained what little strength he had left. He ignored the pain, ignored the way his limbs dragged as he crawled towards the pistol. </p><p> </p><p>The recall code could end this. Reset her. Leave her inert and defenseless on the rooftop, helpless and still, mind blanked and ready to try again.</p><p> </p><p>Lacey’s knife glinted as she whipped it overhead, screaming and slamming it into Valentine’s torso. He was shouting, his vocalizer crackling and shorting out as the blade struck him, again and again.</p><p> </p><p>Danse collapsed short of the pistol. His fingertips grazed the stock and he strained, nudging it enough to turn the barrel towards him. He snagged it and got his hand around it. </p><p> </p><p>Delta 1... Delta 1... Delta 1.. 2...</p><p> </p><p>He dragged himself up to his knees, then to his feet. His shoulders screamed as he lifted the pistol. He could barely get the sights lined up. She was moving too fast. There were only six in the barrel. She was a Courser who could shrug off bullets like they were nothing. If he missed, if this didn’t stop her, Valentine would-- </p><p> </p><p>Somewhere deep in his head, his own voice spoke it. </p><p> </p><p>He remembered.</p><p> </p><p>“Unit X2-43, initialize factory reset,” he shouted. “Authorization code Delta 1-2--” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey turned to look at him over her shoulder, her blue eyes wide and round with shock. </p><p> </p><p>Danse pulled the trigger. </p><p> </p><p>Her head flew back as the bullet struck her temple. Blood trickled down the side of her face. She hovered for a moment, unsteady, as though unsure whether the wound was worth reacting to. </p><p> </p><p>He fired again. Again. Again. He staggered forward, and missed the fifth shot when his shoulder briefly gave out. Then he pressed the barrel point blank to blonde hair and fired. Blood and bits of cranial matter burst from the other side of the Courser’s skull. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Libra </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>Lacey collapsed forward, landing across Valentine. There were no sparks, no jitters, no mechanical sounds or movements. A pool of blood bloomed beneath her head, and she looked for all the world like a dead human woman. </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s strength gave out. He fell onto his knees and the pistol slipped from his grip, bouncing across the rooftop. He shivered, clutching both of his shoulders, forcing deep breaths to swallow down the pain. </p><p> </p><p>“Nick?” he croaked. </p><p> </p><p>For one horrible moment, there was no response. No movement. Danse closed his eyes, sucking in a shuddering breath through his teeth. </p><p> </p><p>“Jesus Christ… I just got that goddamn thing fixed...” Lacey’s body shifted, rolling aside as a plastic hand pushed her away. </p><p> </p><p>Danse exhaled. “Nick?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re…?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. I’m all right.” Valentine winced as he sat up. There were punctures all over the fresh plates of plastic covering his torso, and his left arm was still moving oddly, sparking when he shifted his shoulder. But there was no fluid, no indication of lasting damage. “Diagnostic says it’s superficial. What about you?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve been stabbed,” he said flatly. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, looks like it.” </p><p> </p><p>“And feel like I’ve been stomped on by a behemoth.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll bet.” </p><p> </p><p>“Inside my head.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” said Valentine. “All right. Hang in there, pal. Minutemen are heading up. Any minute now.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse’s eyes drifted to the dead Courser. The woman who’d callously terrorized so many, in this life and the previous. The synth so convinced of their nature, of her own, and of what she’d been taught that she’d deluded herself into some grand crusade to prove her worth to humanity. </p><p> </p><p>It could have been him. It could have easily been him, falling into a world of denial. Lashing out at the truth. Desperately feigning that he was an exception, and he wasn’t simply wrong to begin with. Hurting innocents, hurting himself and everyone in his path, losing everything he had left.</p><p> </p><p>But he didn’t, he reminded himself. He didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>For all he’d lost, for all he’d never get back, for all that would never stop hurting, there was so much keeping him tethered. Grounded to reality and the truth of what he was. Who he was. Who he wanted to be. Honor. Duty. Honesty. Service. Courage. Selflessness. People in his past and his present who aided him and stood by him and believed in him. Cutler. Haylen. Nora. </p><p> </p><p>And now, somehow, to his great and pleasant surprise, an obnoxious, smug, self-styled synth detective.</p><p> </p><p>“Up we go.” Valentine gingerly hoisted Danse’s arm to help him stand. “You all right?” </p><p> </p><p>Danse didn’t answer. He let out a long sigh, and his eyes began to sting.</p><p> </p><p>“Danse?” Valentine set a hand on his shoulder. “You all right?” </p><p> </p><p>He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and cracked the slightest of smiles. Danse stepped forward, threw his arms around Valentine’s shoulders and pulled him into a wholehearted brotherly embrace. </p><p> </p><p>There were initially a few seconds, likely of shock. Then Valentine chuckled and returned the gesture in kind.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Danse was finally able to answer. “I will be.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>With an OC as a main antagonist, particularly one this twisted, I've been fairly nervous about Lacey's portrayal and how she reads. I was interested in writing a female Courser and in exploring an unconventional/unexpected abuser, without making her completely and offensively axe-crazy. I hope I succeeded in this and that you guys found her compelling, if nothing else. Now I'm glad she's dead because she's an awful, awful person and I hate her. Yay!</p><p>There are several important differences between Lacey and Danse that change their respective fates. Lacey is quick to use and hurt other people, refuses to accept the truth, and is so married to the idea that synths are machines that she can't possibly fathom that it's wrong and she isn't just Super Duper Special. Danse turns all his trauma at discovering his true identity inward, and would only ever hurt himself over it. He's also able to realize what he was always taught about synths could be wrong, with himself as the prime example rather than a special exception. </p><p>(This is a good portion of why I really don't care for the Danse Elder of the Brotherhood alternate ending of Blind Betrayal that was cut from the game. Arthur Maxson isn't the only problem with the BoS and him going away doesn't make the problems go away. Danse doesn't need to double down on the Brotherhood's beliefs and make himself an exception to them. He needs to realize they're wrong.) </p><p>But most importantly, YAY THEY DID IT THEY DID IT NICK AND DANSE DID THE HUG. FIC COMPLETE</p><p>... mostly. I hope to have the epilogue out later this week so I can finish stabbing you all in the feelings. &gt;:3 </p><p>NEXT CHAPTER: Epilogue, loose ends, and a long-awaited return.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. We'll Meet Again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Loose ends, a new path, and a long-awaited return.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Apropos to their name, the Minutemen arrived on the facility roof within minutes. A small squad appeared from the stairwell and one was quick to Danse’s side to spare him a stimpak. The injection took the worst of the bite out of his stab wounds, though that wasn’t saying much when his head and the rest of his body felt like he’d been repeatedly run over by tank treads. </p><p> </p><p>He could at least walk now, albeit slowly. Valentine and two of the militiamen stuck close to him, so he must have looked about as unstable as he felt. They made their way down the elevator, past the others securing the building, outside where the Minutemen escorted them back across Cambridge to their temporary HQ at the diner. </p><p> </p><p>Inside, Nora lay back on one of the booths, her legs freshly bandaged and a medic sticking an IV into her arm. She looked woozy and ill and half-asleep, but her eyes opened and she perked up as Danse and Valentine came trudging in. “Oh-” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Nora </em>.” Danse’s heart jumped. His listlessness vanished in an instant, warmth and relief flooding through him. He ran to her, fell to his knees beside the booth and scooped her into his arms.</p><p> </p><p>“Danse. God, Danse... “ She hugged him fiercely, her arms around his neck, fingertips digging into his broad shoulders. He cradled her close and laid desperate, impulsive kisses to her forehead, her temple, her cheeks. </p><p> </p><p>“I thought I lost you,” he whispered. </p><p> </p><p>“I was so scared.” She sobbed and cupped his cheeks, carded her fingers through his hair. “I thought she’d take you away from me.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’d never let that happen. Never.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “I love you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, sweetheart--” </p><p> </p><p>“I love you.” Now that he’d said it to her, he didn’t think he’d ever stop. “I’ll never lose you aga--” </p><p> </p><p>He was cut off as Nora pressed up, capturing his lips in a reckless kiss. He could have <em> ascended </em>in that moment. He lifted her off the booth-- </p><p> </p><p>“IV!” the medic snapped. “Watch the IV!” </p><p> </p><p>Danse would ordinarily be ashamed at causing trouble, but for several minutes he made himself an utter nuisance to the medics. He didn’t even think he’d regret it later.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, a no-nonsense older woman pried him away from Nora with the inarguably vital task of treating his wounds. She stood over him like a stern Paladin judging a sloppy Initiate, glowering to keep him still as another medic cleaned, medicated, and bandaged his wounds. Meanwhile, Valentine sat nearby, spectating with an amused smile as he coached a young Minutemen through fixing his shoulder joint. </p><p> </p><p>By the time they were through, Nora had been moved to one of the apartments across the way. Joined by Lieutenant Garvey, who’d just returned from the facility, they sat and debriefed the situation. Danse explained the truth about Lacey, the broad details of his history with her, and her mad plan to upgrade herself right out of synthhood. Nora described her captivity. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what I would have done without Julia. Having her to focus on, to protect…” She leaned back against the ratty cushions on the bed and shook her head. “It honestly kept me calm and sane. I couldn’t let myself be scared, or give in to despair.” </p><p> </p><p>There was no “bright side” to being held hostage and threatened for weeks, but given what Lacey had proven capable of, Nora was extremely fortunate. There were the Twilight injections, which kept her docile and at least took the edge off her crippled leg. There was the extreme violent outburst after Julia’s escape, the closest she’d come to fearing she’d be murdered. Other than that, Nora hadn’t been directly harmed. No torture. No experiments. Only withdrawals, infections in both broken legs, and neglect. </p><p> </p><p>“For the first week, Lacey only wanted to talk,” said Nora. “From morning when I woke up to whenever my voice gave out, I just sat in the office and talked to her.” </p><p> </p><p>“About what?” asked Valentine. </p><p> </p><p>“Anything and everything. I told her about my life before the war. College, law school. Nate and Shaun. Waking up from the vault, the wasteland, the Minutemen…  She asked questions and seemed genuinely interested. Then she told me that nutty story about being a doctor, and about her life on the surface. It was like we were old friends catching up. Some days she’d even serve me snacks and tea.”</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell.” Garvey raised an eyebrow. “Why would she do all that?” </p><p> </p><p>“I had no idea.” Nora shrugged a shoulder. “It kept her hands off Julia, and it kept her from hurting me worse, so I obliged her.”</p><p> </p><p>As the days went on, Lacey’s friendly conversations drifted towards one particular topic: the Institute. They slipped closer and closer to interrogations. What did Nora know? Had she been there? Who had she spoken to? What sort of privileges had they granted her?</p><p> </p><p>“That’s when I realized,” she said. “She thought I could help her. She wanted to make friends with me, make me feel sorry for her. She wanted me to use my clout and get them to take her back.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse frowned. “What kind of clout would you possibly have with the Institute?” </p><p> </p><p>Nora’s eyes drifted towards her folded hands in her lap. Her fingers twisted together in an idle nervous gesture, and she let out a long sigh. “There’s something I need to tell you guys. Something I found out when I went there. I should have told you by now. I owe you all that much but I’ve been… unsure how to do it.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse, Garvey, and Valentine all exchanged glances. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry about it right now,” Valentine said softly. “You’ve been through a lot, doll, and you need your rest.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s right,” Danse agreed. “You should focus on your recovery for the time being.”</p><p> </p><p>“We’ll be ready to listen later on, General.” Garvey nodded. “We’re gonna get you back home to Sanctuary in the morning. Doc Anderson’s gonna make you good as new.” </p><p> </p><p>Nora closed her eyes. “Thank you.” Her voice thickened. “I’m lucky to have you all looking out for me. Preston, you and the others outside… I’m so proud of you. Thank you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course, General. I’ll pass it along.” Garvey stood and made his way to the door. “Now, I’ll let you get some sleep. I’m going to congratulate the troops on a job well done.” </p><p> </p><p>“Outstanding work out there, Lieutenant Garvey,” said Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, Danse.” Garvey tipped his hat and departed. </p><p> </p><p>Danse and Valentine rose from their seats and made ready to join him, until Nora cleared her throat. “And as for you two…” </p><p> </p><p>She smiled through the tears welling in her eyes. “Preston told me you were the ones who found me. That you two tracked me down and followed the trail and did it all yourselves, together.” </p><p> </p><p>His eyes darted from Nora to Valentine, who mirrored the somewhat sheepish look.  </p><p> </p><p>Danse cleared his throat. “I can’t in good conscience take credit for the endeavor. I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without Mister Valentine’s sharp intellect.” </p><p> </p><p>“No, no, none of that modest nonsense,” Valentine replied. “Danse is a hell of a fighter, and he saved my plastic hide more than once.” </p><p> </p><p>They stared uneasily at each other for a moment. </p><p> </p><p>“We-- well. It turns out we make a pretty swell team, when we’re not sniping and spitting at each other,” Valentine offered.  </p><p> </p><p>Danse smirked, turning his eyes away. “Yes. I completely agree.” </p><p> </p><p>In spite of her weariness and her flagging energy, Nora was beaming at them.</p><p> </p><p>“Imagine that,” she mused. “My best boys actually getting along. I have <em> got </em>to hear how that happened later.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The last of the sunset vanished into the darkening sky. Generators rumbled to life and the streetlights of Sanctuary illuminated one by one. </p><p> </p><p>Nick took one last drag as he crossed the Old North Bridge. He extinguished the cigarette in the palm of his hand, then tucked the butt into his coat pocket. God, it felt good to be back in his detective ensemble, complete with his trusty old trenchcoat. </p><p> </p><p>Well. <em> A </em>trusty old trenchcoat. The spare he’d kept in a drawer at the agency for a special occasion, such as the old one getting obliterated in a giant fireball. This coat was practically brand new, hardly a speck of dirt on it and nary a patch to be found. The way his life went, Nick gave it about a week before the first hole showed up. </p><p> </p><p>It had been two days since Nora’s rescue. Once she was safely on the road with her Minutemen VIP escort, Nick headed back to Diamond City. He checked in with Ellie, got some clothes on, then spent about 14 hours lying motionless on his bed in some approximation of rest. Then he’d packed his bags and departed for Sanctuary.</p><p> </p><p>He’d already heard through the grapevine that Nora’s surgery had gone well. Doc Anderson set the broken bones in her legs and cleaned up the infections, so now it was only a matter of rest and recovery. Knowing Nora, she would be losing her mind sitting idle. Nick was perfectly pleased to hang out a while to keep her company and volunteer on the rotating schedule of people enforcing her bedrest. (He wouldn’t insult her by calling it <em> babysitting </em>but… well…) </p><p> </p><p>The shops in the market were closing down and the settlers gathered around the commons, lighting campfires, lingering for supper. Someone had just put on a stewpot for a communal meal, and the woman at the bar was lining up bottles across her stall, ready for the evening rush. Nick passed by on his way down the street, though slowed to smile and tip his hat at the settlers who recognized him, at Sturges who called his name, at Codsworth who bade him a good evening. </p><p> </p><p>The lights were on at Nora’s house. A faint snippet of music carried from the bedroom. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Before I knew Maria’s name and heard her wail and whining </em> <em> <br/></em> <em> I had a girl and she had me, and the sun was always shining…” </em></p><p> </p><p>Now there was a fine voice he hadn’t heard in literal centuries. </p><p> </p><p><em> “But then one day I left my girl, I left her far behind me<br/></em><em>And now I’m lost, so gol’durn lost, not even God can find me. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Nick walked slowly through the living room and into the hall. “Knock knock,” he called as he reached Nora’s bedroom. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Nick! Come on in.” </p><p> </p><p>Nora sat comfortably on her bed, her bandaged legs elevated by cushions. Her complexion was bright, her gray eyes keen, and she looked a hundred times healthier than a few days ago. The miraculous results of a long sleep, a few square meals, and a full treatment of Addictol to flush the chems out of her system. </p><p> </p><p>Danse was there too, relaxing beside her on the bed. Nick barely recognized him in casual clothes, and especially without his usual stern scowl. His expression was content and eager, and startlingly close to--dare he say it? <em> Happy </em>. He had one arm gently around Nora’s waist, the other cradling her Pip-Boy in her lap. Harve Presnell’s rich baritone played from the speaker. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Out here they’ve got a name for rain, for wind and fire only,<br/></em><em>But when you’re lost and all alone, there ain’t no word but ‘lonely’...<br/></em><em>And I’m a lost and lonely man without a star to guide me<br/></em><em>Maria, blow my love to me, I need my girl beside me... </em>” </p><p> </p><p>“Evening,” said Nick. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything?” </p><p> </p><p>“Not at all,” said Danse. “Good to see you, Valentine.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good tune. Where’d you dig it up?”</p><p> </p><p>“Danse was sharing one of his holotapes with me.” Nora gestured to her Pip-Boy. “He’s got great taste.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse gazed at Nora, those big brown eyes full with the softest, gentlest, eager-little-puppiest look Nick had ever seen. “I’m happy you like it.” </p><p> </p><p>“I love it,” she said, and Danse honestly looked like he was going to melt. </p><p> </p><p>Nick held back a warm chuckle, but only barely. So this was the true face of the mighty ex-Paladin Danse: cold steel on the outside, and a big gooey marshmallow within. What a moony-eyed smitten dope.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m here to make another offering to our favorite patient.” Nick gestured to the satchel at his side. “Piper and Ellie and I packed you some books, magazines, and about 47 back-issues of Publick Occurrences.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ooh, that’ll keep me busy,” said Nora. </p><p> </p><p>“And company, too, for when you’re bored later.” Nick gestured at himself. </p><p> </p><p>Danse shifted, pulling his arm back from Nora and moving to stand. “You can take over now, if you’d like.” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t let me chase you out, now.” </p><p> </p><p>“Not at all. I’ve been here all day.” He smirked. “As a matter of fact, she was just threatening me to go take a break.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you’re not coming back in this house until you’ve eaten dinner and had sixteen ounces of water,” Nora teased. “Those are orders, soldier.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes ma’am.” Danse leaned down to kiss her temple, then gave Nick a friendly nod on his way out the door.</p><p> </p><p>Nick allowed the chuckle now. He shuffled into the room proper and set the satchel down at her bedside. “How are you feeling?” </p><p> </p><p>“Much better, even if I’m tired of sitting around.” Nora squirmed a little, leaning back against her pillows. “I think I might get up and go for a walk.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, doll. I already know Doc Anderson said you’re in bed for a week.” </p><p> </p><p>“Damn.” She snapped her fingers. “It could have worked.” </p><p> </p><p>“If you’re on your best behavior, maybe Danse will take you on a piggyback ride.” </p><p> </p><p>Nora chuckled. “He had a lot to say about you, you know.” </p><p> </p><p>“Uh oh.” </p><p> </p><p>“All good things.” She patted the mattress beside her to encourage him to have a seat. “Shockingly.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick obliged. He kept his feet on the ground and wouldn’t think to lie back any closer. “Like what?” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I don’t want to embarrass him. But it’s all things I already know. That you’re clever, and wise, and incredibly kind.”</p><p> </p><p>“Eesh… full-on gushing.” He shook his head. “I must’ve made a good impression.” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course you did. I knew he’d like you if he ever gave you a chance.”  </p><p> </p><p>Nick resisted the urge to brush off the compliment, settling instead for a deflection. “I can safely say the feeling’s mutual. For an uptight boneheaded square, he’s a pretty good guy.” </p><p> </p><p>Nora smiled. “I’m glad. It makes me so happy that you guys are getting along.” </p><p> </p><p>“It wasn’t all my doing, believe it or not.” Nick chuckled. “He’s been trying. Working as hard as he can to get better and do better. You should be proud of him.” </p><p> </p><p>“I am,” she said. “I’m proud of both of you. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be dead. You absolutely saved my life.” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course, doll. But don’t send all the praise my way.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not. Though you could accept a <em> little </em>, Mr. Modesty.” She shot him a knowing look. “Just this once.” </p><p> </p><p>“All right, all right. Just this once.” He shrugged theatrically, like this was a great trial for him. “I did a damn good job.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Thank </em> you.” She let out a joking huff. “Was that so hard?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m in literal agony.” </p><p> </p><p>Nora rolled her eyes, though kept smiling. She drifted off into tentative silence like there was something she wanted to say. Nick gave her as long as she needed. </p><p> </p><p>“I also wanted to thank you,” she finally murmured, “for helping Danse. For reaching out to him when I went missing.” </p><p> </p><p>“It wasn’t any trouble,” said Nick, which was a tremendous lie. </p><p> </p><p>“But it couldn’t have been comfortable for you. I know how he gets,” she said. “I know he’s been so awful to you before, and I fucking hated it. But the way he talks about you now-- I think it was good for him. He really needed to hear from you. He needed the hand up.” </p><p> </p><p>She closed her eyes and lowered her head. “I worry about him. He’s so stoic and would never complain or ask for help. But after everything that happened… he needs people on his side, you know? People he can depend on when he feels like he doesn’t matter. When he thinks he’s all alone in the world. A friend who’s always got his back, no matter what.” </p><p> </p><p>She reached to grasp his hand. “He needs a Nick Valentine. Like I have.”</p><p> </p><p>Nick curled his fingers around hers and gave them a squeeze. “I… don’t know what to say, doll.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to say anything. I just... “ She smiled at him, her eyes starting to shine. “I hope you know how special you are. I’ve said it before, but… I honestly wouldn’t be here without you. I never would have made it. Not out of that cell. Not out of Fort Hagen. Not even three days out of the vault.” </p><p> </p><p>She leaned forward and slipped an arm over his shoulder, guiding him closer. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Nick. And I’m so happy you are.”</p><p> </p><p>He expected the hug and facilitated it, moving so she wouldn’t have to. He didn’t expect the moment her lips pressed to his. </p><p> </p><p>It was only a moment, only a peck. One soft, sweet, chaste kiss. But he would dream about it forever. </p><p> </p><p>She let him go, and he leaned back with a smile. He thanked every divine force he might or might not believe in that an old synth couldn’t blush. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re a special gal, Nora,” he said. “I’m honored to have you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Likewise.” She squeezed his newly-mended hand in her lap. “And always.” </p><p> </p><p>He sat with her a little while longer, holding her hand, making pleasant conversation. Soon her eyes looked to be getting heavy and her energy flagging, her voice a little sleepier.</p><p> </p><p>“Doctor Nick says you ought to get some sleep. I’m sticking around a few days, so I’ll make sure to come bug you tomorrow.” </p><p> </p><p>Nora smiled. “I’d love that.” </p><p> </p><p>“You play your cards right, I’ll grab Codsworth and we’ll treat you to a round of charades.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, boy,” she said, deadpan. “Can’t wait.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick grinned and headed for the door. “Sweet dreams, doll.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good night, bright eyes.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The darkness overhead was pinned back by a spectacular veil of stars, a buttery moon, and the bright glow of the Milky Way trailing across the sky. Nick took in the view before something else caught his notice in Nora's driveway. </p><p> </p><p>Danse, flashlight in hand, was busy looking over a still and hulking figure. His X-01 power armor, standing idle on the concrete. </p><p> </p><p>“Whaddya know.” Nick walked over to take a look. “Where’d that come from?”</p><p> </p><p>“It appears it was recently delivered.” Danse checked over the surface with the flashlight, experimentally moved the joints in the arms and fingers, carefully searching for any signs of something amiss. </p><p> </p><p>“Must have been <em> real </em>recent. It wasn’t here when I showed up.”</p><p> </p><p>Danse moved to the back and turned the release, and the frame popped open with the hiss of hydraulics. A slip of paper fluttered to the ground from within. He picked it up and examined it. Then he let out a loud, consternated sigh.</p><p> </p><p>The paper showed a crude sketch of a lantern, along with an oval drawn up like a smiley face, complete with black inked-in sunglasses. At the bottom was a heart, and the note was signed “D.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” said Nick. “He promised he’d give it back.” </p><p> </p><p>“And a good damn thing he did,” muttered Danse. “If that slimy son of a bitch put one scratch on it…” </p><p> </p><p>“Settle down, killer.” Nick slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll buy you a drink.” </p><p> </p><p>They sat to the side of the common on a salvaged park bench, close enough to enjoy one of the small campfires. Nick returned from the bar with two bottles of beer and handed one to Danse as he sat down. </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.” Danse wrapped his hand around the bottle’s neck. “I meant to ask how your dama… injuries are.” </p><p> </p><p>“Fine, fine,” said Nick. “Everything’s in good shape. Got a few new holes in the ol’ pec plate, but the way I seem to get shot at, it was only a matter of time anyway.” </p><p> </p><p>“Outstanding.” </p><p> </p><p>“And what about you?”</p><p> </p><p>“My wounds are nearly completely recovered. Only some lingering soreness.” </p><p> </p><p>“Great,” said Nick. “And, ah… how about… you know. Non-physically.” </p><p> </p><p>“Pardon?” </p><p> </p><p>Nick made a soft, frustrated hum. “I’m asking if you’re doing all right.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse frowned, twisting the cap off his beer. “With regards to what?” </p><p> </p><p>Good lord. “Mentally,” he said, since apparently he had to be that explicit. “Emotionally.” He paused, to see if the big guy would catch on. “I’m worrying about you again, all right?” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” Said as though this was a surprise to him. “Don’t worry. I’m well.” </p><p> </p><p>“Is that a brush-off? ‘Mind your own business?’” </p><p> </p><p>“Not at all. I’m greatly relieved that we put a definitive end to this incident,” he clarified. “Nora is home safe, and Lacey was stopped. She won’t be hurting anyone else.” </p><p> </p><p>He lifted his shoulders a bit awkwardly. “Though… I admit, I’ve been drawn deeply into introspection the past few days.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah? Anything you need to share?” </p><p> </p><p>“It hasn’t escaped my notice that my situation and hers were… similar, in many ways. I can’t help questioning how it could have come to pass that I’d behave as she did. If I could have followed a similar path to ruin, for others and for myself.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick thought about it a moment. “Nah. I don’t think so.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not?” </p><p> </p><p>“Because you aren’t her. You got a hell of a raw deal, but you’d never do what she did. Treating synths like tools, rejecting reality to prove a stupid delusion… hurting and killing innocents.” Nick shook his head. “I can tell you don’t have it in you.” </p><p> </p><p>“If she’d succeeded in reprogramming me, I wouldn’t have a choice. But I suppose if she’d succeeded, it wouldn’t really be me anymore.” </p><p> </p><p>Danse leaned back, gazing thoughtfully at the sky. “I wonder if the individual I became would have ended up the way she wanted. Cold and callous like her. Or perhaps enough of ‘me’ would linger that he would end up defiant as well, pushing back on her cruelty yet again. Perhaps that’s one of my so-called glitches.” He smirked. “I have to say, I find some satisfaction in that notion.” </p><p> </p><p>He took another sip of beer, then let his shoulders relax. “My memories also seem to have settled, apart from… I suppose I could call them ‘remnants.’” </p><p> </p><p>“Flashes.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Flashes. Dreams and visions of things that I’ve never seen before. I can feel them, even feel as though I’m living them. But I don’t mistake them for mine.” </p><p> </p><p>“Boy, do I know how that goes,” said Nick. “Kind of disturbing the first few times, but you get used to them.” </p><p> </p><p>“Strangely, I find them something of a comfort,” said Danse. “Ever since I discovered my true identity, I’ve been afraid of the other mind buried beneath my own. Seeing his memories, knowing they’re there is… disconcerting. I imagine it always will be. More so now that I know there was yet another ‘me,’ hidden even further back, where I will never reach. But I’m not afraid anymore.” </p><p> </p><p>He looked back at Nick with a slightly softer smile. “I’ll never fully understand, but now I have some idea of what he was like. What he went through. How we are similar and different. I owe M7-97 a great debt of gratitude. In fact, I owe him everything I have. I rest easier knowing he would approve of what I’ve chosen to become. Knowing he’s at peace. Knowing he’s free.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick smiled. “He did all right for himself.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” said Danse. “He’s happy now.”  </p><p> </p><p>The fire crackled pleasantly at their feet. The soft chatter of the others around the commons carried over, creating a calm and peaceful ambience. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you heading back to Diamond City tonight?” asked Danse. </p><p> </p><p>“No. I was planning to hang around a few days,” said Nick. “No other cases at the moment, knock on wood. Plus it’s gonna take a village to keep poor Nora from going stir-crazy on bedrest.” </p><p> </p><p>“Prudent observation.” </p><p> </p><p>“What about you? No, ah… urgent bunker business?” </p><p> </p><p>“No. I-- actually am planning to stay here, for the time being.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p> </p><p>“Apart from taking care of Nora, Lieutenant Garvey asked if I’d be willing to provide some assistance to the Minutemen,” said Danse. “They have a lot of new recruits. Young, eager, enthusiastic, but green. They need someone with experience to show them how it’s done.” </p><p> </p><p>“Boot camp, huh?” </p><p> </p><p>“I was thinking more along the lines of training exercises and drills. Boot camp will be a last resort.” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be too hard on ‘em, now. They’re just kids from the wasteland.” </p><p> </p><p>“They won’t be the first batch of those I’ve worked with by a long shot. Perhaps not the last, either.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick chuckled. It was a great idea on multiple counts. Whip the young Minutemen into shape. Give Danse somewhere useful to apply his experience. He’d have to shake Preston’s hand the next time he saw him. </p><p> </p><p>“So I guess that means you won’t be coming to work for the agency?” </p><p> </p><p>“Certainly not. Nora would be furious that I replaced her.” </p><p> </p><p>“I can have more than one partner, y’know. It <em> is </em>an agency.” </p><p> </p><p>“With all due respect, Valentine, I don’t know that I’m suited for the detective business. But if you ever have a need for a soldier, you know where to find me.” </p><p> </p><p>Nick laughed and tilted his beer aside for a toast. “You are going to regret making that offer, my friend.” </p><p> </p><p>“Negative.” Danse gently tapped it with his own. “I don’t believe I will.” </p><p> </p><p>Two synths sat side by side beneath a gorgeous Commonwealth sky. The silence had never been warmer. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Special thanks to: </p><p>paradox_siren, monster-hunting partner and Enablemobile Frequent Flier, who cheerfully beta-read and let me squeal and fangirl and bounce ideas off of her, and who I am not at all sorry I enabled into the fandom. </p><p>SomeMagician, longtime bestie and Perennial Writey Friendo, who heroically beta-read and let me squeal and fangirl and bounce ideas off of her while being entirely canonblind. Thank you and SORRY!! </p><p>Whoever it was who pasted all the character dialogue text files onto the Fallout wiki. I cannot stress how much use I’ve gotten out of reading and rereading them the past few months. Also the Fallout wiki in general for being there when I needed canon reference and especially specific terminal entries.</p><p>Everyone who read, followed along, provided comments and kudos and reblogs and a general warm fuzzy sense of encouragement for my first long-form fic in literal goddamn years. I love you all and hope you enjoy whatever I write next!</p><p>I hope I have provided some fun and feelings and escapism in this truly shitty year. I’d absolutely love to talk fandom, theories, headcanons, or tl;dr about the fic, video games, writing advice/thoughts or just about anything else. I’m on Tumblr at theggning, and feel absolutely free to follow, message, ask me stuff or anything else.</p><p>Thank you for reading! </p><p>GGMoonyCrisco (GG)<br/>Local Chapter Head of Synthfuckers United (Self-Appointed)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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